LpARY OF CONGRESS. 1 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 









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TALES, ESSAYS, AND POEMS 



TALES 



ESSAYS AND POEMS 



BY 



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JANE^ AND ANN TAYLOR 



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tIJSitfj a ifimoir 
By grace a. OLIVER 




BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1884 






Copyright, 1884, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



University Press: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Biographical Sketch, by Grace A. Oliver ... ix 

Display . i 

A Day's Pleasure 126 

Reflections on a Day's Pleasure 131 

Lucy's Wishes 137 

Every Man his own Fortune-Teller 142 

The Life of a Looking-Glass 149 

How IT STRIKES A STRANGER l6l 

Soliloquies of the Old Philosopher and the 

Young Lady 167 

The Philosopher's Scales 171 

"I CAN DO without IT.'* — I I74 

IL . 180 

The Sore Tongue 185 

The Discontented Pendulum 190 

Busy Idleness 194 

Temper; or the Two Old Ladies 203 

The Moth 209 

The Wonderful Bird 213 

A Curious Instrument 216 

The Toad's Journal 220 



VI CONTENTS,* 

Page 
On Visiting Cowper's Garden and Summer-House 

AT Olney 223 

The Troublesome Friend 225 

A Letter to Whomsoever it may Concern . . . 229 

Government of the Thoughts . 234 

Fashions for October 240 

The Use of Biography -245 

The Wise Man 251 

The Clever Fool 257 

To Madame De Stael. Written after Reading 

" Corinne, ou l'Italie." . 264 

To THE Moon 266 

A Story 267 

Recreation 269 

The Church- Yard .... Ann Taylor .... 273 

Spring Ann Taylor .... 275 

Summer Ann Taylor .... 276 

Autumn Ann Taylor .... 277 

To a Little Girl that has Told a Lie 

Ann Taylor .... 278 

Meddlesome Matty .... Ann Taylor .... 280 

The Worm 282 

Fire 283 

Air 284 

Earth 285 

Water 286 

My Mother Ann Taylor .... 288 



eONTENTS. vii 

Page 

Reading 289 

Idleness 290 

The Pin 291 

The Chatterbox 292 

The Snowdrop 293 

The Yellow Leaf 294 

The Poppy 295 

The Violet 296 

The Way to be Happy 297 

The Cruel Thorn . 297 

The Notorious Glutton . . Ann Taylor .... 298 

The Child's Monitor 300 

The Butterfly 301 

The Spider and his Wife 302 

Never Play with Fire 303 

The Lark 304 

The Truant Boys 305 

George and the Chimney-Sweeper 306 

Sophia's Fool's-Cap 308 

Washing and Dressing . . Ann Taylor .... 309 

The Plum Cake Ann Taylor .... 310 

Another Plum Cake ... Ann Taylor .... 311 

The Cow Ann Taylor .... 312 

Good Night 312 

Getting Up 313 

Baby and Mamma .* 314 

The Star 315 



viii CONTENTS, 

Page 

The Flower and the Lady, about Getting Up . 316 

The Baby's Dance .... Ann Taylor .... 316 

For a Little Girl that did not like to be Washed 317 

Questions and Answers 317 

The Field Daisy 318 

The Michaelmas Daisy . . Ann Taylor . . . . 318 

The Little Child 319 

The Sheep 320 

A Fine Thing 321 

A Pretty Thing Ann Taylor .... 322 

The Snowdrop 323 

Going to Bed 323 

Time to Get Up 324 

The LiiTLE Fish that would not do as it 

WAS BID Ann Taylor .... 325 

The Little Negro .... Ann Taylor .... 326 

The LriTLE Lark 327 

The Little Ants 328 

The Meadows 329 

The Wasp and the Bee 330 



MEMOIR. 



THE Taylors of Ongar were a truly remarkable family. 
Among the great number of writers of this name — 
and Allibone gives more than three hundred in his Dic- 
tionary of Authors — there are none more beloved, more 
worthy of mention, than this family, so called to distin- 
guish them from all the others. From the time of the 
eloquent Jeremy Taylor, and his scurrilous contemporary, 
the "Water Poet," noted for his pasquils and ballads on 
the Royalist side, and the vast numbers of these effusions, 
every department of literature has had the name on its 
ijst. 

" The most eloquent of divines ! had I said of men," of 
whom Coleridge said, " Cicero would forgive this state- 
ment and Demosthenes nod assent," worthily heads the 
long list of Taylors. 

Among the contemporaries of Ann and Jane were so 
many noted names that some distinctive appellation was 
really needed for them. 

There was Taylor, the '* Platonist ; " John Taylor, of 
Norwich, the friend of Mrs. Barbauld, noted for his great 
learning ^s a Hebraist : Tom Taylor, the dramatist, is a 
very popular name ; and WiUiam Taylor, of Norwich, one 
of Mrs. Barbauld's scholars, takes rank as England's first 
student of the literature of Germany. It was he who first 
introduced modern German poetry to English readers by 
his translations. 



X MEMOIR. 

The eminent names of the Hebrew scholar and Pla- 
tonist, the dramatist and poet, are still known to lovers of 
literature, but they have not overshadowed the modest, 
retiring, yet gifted Taylors of Ongar. 

Theirs was not the fame of scholar, ballad-maker, or 
divine; they were simple untrained poets, wild- wood 
birds with a sweet, natural note peculiar to themselves. 
A spirit of pure devotion, unworldly simplicity, and deep 
religious aspiration, was their charm. A very tender chord 
is touched in many hearts when recollections come of the 
twilight hour, and the immortal lines, ** Twinkle, twinkle, 
little star," repeated by the dear mother voice, as one by 
one the stars shone in the darkening sky in the evening 
shades. 

Some mention should be made of the ancestry of these 
women. They were born in the '* lower middle class," 
which it has been the fashion of late years for the critic 
and poet to decry. The apostle of " sweetness and light" 
has spoken often of the " PhiHstinism " of England, and 
the author of the operatic air, beginning, " Bow down, ye 
lower middle classes," has the same class in mind. The 
Taylor family, though gifted and of note, belong to this 
very much abused set. Matthew Arnold would have doubt- 
less made them an exception to his sweeping denuncia- 
tions had their merits been placed before him. 

While their poems had immense popularity, they were 
also kindly welcomed by the critics. The " Quarterly 
Review " said of them, ** The writers of these rhymes 
have far better claims to the title of poet than many who 
arrogate to themselves that high appellation.'' 

Isaac Taylor, the grandfather of Ann and Jane, was 
eminent in his day as an engraver. The son of a brass- 
founder at Worcester, he early showed a talent for en- 
graving. On the death of his father, who had fallen into 



MEMOIR, XI 

poverty in his latter days, Isaac walked to London. Find- 
ing employment in the cutlery works of Josiah Jeffreys, he 
prospered so well that he married the daughter of Jeffreys. 
Jeffreys meantime had retired from business, and settled 
in Essex in a country home. 

" Isaac Taylor had engraved crests and other devices at 
Worcester, and so distinguished himself in that department 
in Josiah Jeffreys's works, that it led to his adopting art engrav- 
ing, then recently introduced, as a profession, to which he 
added presently the business of an art publisher. His house 
became in this way the resort of several personages of note in 
art and literature. Goldsmith, the illustrations to whose works 
are often signed * Isaac Taylor,' was frequently there, and 
upon one occasion, when consulted upon the title of a book 
with an apology for troubling him upon so trifling a matter, 
replied, * The title, sir ! why, the title is everything.' Barto- 
lozzi, Fuseli, and Smirke, were among his friends, and he was 
one of the original founders of the Royal Incorporated Society 
of Artists of Great Britain, from which sprang the Royal Acad- 
emy. The celebrated Woollett was for many years secretary 
to the Society, and Isaac Taylor eventually succeeded him in 
that office. Thomas Bewick was his valued pupil, who in his 
turn speaks of him in his autobiography, as * my warm friend 
and patron Isaac Taylor.' And again says, ' He was in his 
day accounted the best engraver of embellishments for books, 
most of which he designed himself. The frontispiece to the 
first edition of Cunningham's poems was one of his early 
productions, and at that time my friend Pollard and myself 
thought it was the best thing ever done.' The most important 
work executed by this Isaac Taylor was a large plate, the 
* Flemish Collation,' after Ostade." 

Howard, the philanthropist, was a friend of his, and 
took so much interest in one of his daughters that she 
named a son for him. 

Of the three sons of this Isaac Taylor, Charles, Isaac, 



XU MEMOIR. 

and Josiah, the second was the father of Ann and Jane. 
Charles was distinguished for his learning and peculiar 
erudition, and some very dry editing. Isaac, the brother 
of Ann and Jane, the third of his name, was the author 
of a large number of philosophical works of a popular 
character, which have excited considerable criticism and 
notice. 

He began to write early in life, and his sister Ann re- 
cords the first appearance of the author of the " Natural 
History of Enthusiasm " as " Imus," with the poetical solu- 
tion of a charade on the word " consumption," at the 
age of thirteen. The pubhshers of the " Minor's Pocket 
Book," in which it appeared, were so pleased with the 
answer that they awarded him a special prize for it, as 
Ann under the name of "Maria" was judged the first in 
rank for the answer she sent to the same charade. A year 
or two later, she adds that he was in very ill health, and 
for hours would stand leaning his head against the mantel- 
piece where his mother was at work in the parlor. Years 
after she asked him, in talking over early life and its events, 
why he stood so, and if he remembered what he was think- 
ing of at the time. ^' Yes, Ann," he replied, " I was, in 
fact, meditating on the evils of society, and wondering 
whether I could do anything to mitigate them.'* A con- 
sideration well fulfilled in his case by his works on " En- 
thusiasm," " Fanaticism," " Spiritual Despotism," and 
"Ancient Christianity," which, with many other less noted 
treatises, were his life work. 

Sir James Stephen said his " History of Enthusiasm," 
pubhshed anonymously in 1829, "gave him his literary 
peerage." This was followed by the ** Fanaticism," in 
1833, and "Spiritual Despotism," in 1835. He was 
somewhat of a recluse, and his home at Stanford Rivers 
was well calculated for the hfe of quiet meditation and 



MEMOIR. xiii 

research- which gave him leisure to send forth his popu- 
lar and powerful books. With some exceptions, the crit- 
ics of his day place him high as a writer and thinker. 
Somewhat lacking in originality, his manner was so popu- 
lar and pleasing that in the mind of the great reading 
public he will hold an enduring place as a philosophical 
writer. The '^Edinburgh Review" of 1840 contains the 
critique of Stephen on the " Natural History of Enthu- 
siasm," long unacknowledged by its author, in which he 
says, '^ His books exhibit a character, both moral and in- 
tellectual, from the study of which the reader can hardly 
fail to rise a wiser and a better man." In 1862 he received 
the pleasant compliment of a civil service pension of ^100 
from the government for *' his eminent services to litera- 
ture, especially in the departments of history and philos- 
ophy, during a period of more than forty years." 

Another brother, Jeffreys, was also an author of more 
than twenty works of a miscellaneous character, — some 
for children, — and religious in their style. 

We have somewhat anticipated in nodcing the career of 
Isaac Taylor and his brother, and must retrace our steps, 
and mention in this place the father and mother of this 
remarkable family of workers, thinkers, and writers. 

Isaac Taylor, the father, was a man of mark, full of 
vital piety, and earnest in all he undertook. Early in life 
he embraced his father's calling and became an engraver; 
glad, as he said in his old age, to " engrave a dog-collar " 
with the same hand that executed the noted print of 
Stothard's great picture of the Meeting of Henry VIII. 
and Anne Boleyn. He began life in a very humble manner, 
as this remark will show, marrying very young on a very 
limited and precarious income. He was the author of a 
number of books, — we know of more than twenty, — 
some on travel, juvenile, and on religious subjects ; 



XIV MEMOIR. 

curiously enough none related to his own profession, in 
which he was an expert, and which for years was the great 
object of his daily thought and interest. His character 
and life are so well traced by Ann in her reminiscences 
of early days that the reader cannot fail to be interested 
in their development. 

He left London for Lavenham in Suffolk in 1786, and 
after practising his calHng with great success for some 
years, his zeal for the welfare of the Independents, which 
led him often to supply the place of their minister, and 
preach during his absence, gave him note as a teacher and 
healer of souls. This deep feeling of religious devotion 
made him accept a " call " from a dissenting society at 
Colchester, where he ministered most acceptably for some 
years, — a change of life greatly to his worldly disadvan- 
tage. He left Colchester for Ongar, a village in the vi- 
cinity, and continued his pastoral care of that parish till 
his death in December, 1829. 

Ann, in describing her father to her children, says : — 

" My father was an unusually single-hearted man and Chris- 
tian. His life till nearly thirty was spent in London, but he 
caught not a taint from its atmosphere. So long as he re- 
mained at home his father, a man of sense and ability, and a 
well-known artist of the time, was not, it seemed, under the in- 
fluence of Christian principle, though a strictly moral man; 
and he exhibited towards his family an austere reserve which 
was little calculated to awaken the domestic affections to genial 
life. 

" His mother, possessing no small share of practical good 
sense, and real concern for the interests of her children, was 
yet so more than occupied in the labors of rearing them, and 
withal of a temper so heedless of the graces of life, that it 
seemed scarcely possible for kind and tender dispositions to 
expand under her influence ; but my father not only revered, 
but as his nature could not help, loved her also. 



MEMOIR. XV 

" At thirteen he commenced a life which became one of dif- 
fusive piety. At sixteen he joined the church under the Rev. 
Mr. Webb of Fetter Lane, and from those early years till 
he went down to the grave, at seventy-one, his character 
was one beautiful progress through the benignant graces of 
Christianity. 

" His love of knowledge was early, strong, and universal. 
Nothing was uninteresting to him that he had opportunity to 
acquire, and when acquired his delight was to communicate. 
Apt to teach he certainly was, and ingenious as apt; all his 
methods were self-devised, and the life of few men devoted to 
teaching as a profession, would have accomplished more than 
he attained by husbanding the half hours of his own. Early 
hours, and elastic industry were the * natural magic ' by which 
his multifarious objects were pursued, and labors performed. 

" Whatever I possess of knowledge came from his treasury, 
and far more than is now mine, for many engagements, and a 
memory never good, and perhaps in childhood too little culti- 
vated, have deprived me of much. Too little cultivated, I say, 
because my dear mother having suffered from injudicious exac- 
tions upon memory when a child, erred perhaps in training her 
children in the other extreme. As far as I recollect, we were 
never required to learn anything by heart ! 

" It was my father's habit, whenever a question arose in con- 
versation on points of science or history which we could not 
accurately determine, to refer at the moment to some authority, 
— the lexicon, the gazetteer, the encyclopaedia, or anything 
from which the facts could be gained ; so that much was in 
this way imbibed by his children without labor of any kind, and 
at the expense only of some little impatience at a digression 
with which they would at the time have been willing to dis- 
pense. ' Line upon line,' was, however, in this way gradually 
traced and deepened. Method, arrangement, regularity in 
everything, were the characteristics of his mind; as were a 
tranquil hoping for, and believing in the best, those of his 
heart. 

" As a youth, he had accustomed himself to rise early, but 



XVI MEMOIR. 

the habit declined through disturbed nights during the infancy 
of his children. After a few years, it was renewed and never 
abandoned, and, if I am not mistaken, it was by the following 
incident that he was induced to return to six o'clock as the 
commencement of his day. He had received a call from some 
poor minister, with a request that he would purchase from him 
a small hymn-book, beautifully bound in morocco ; the price 
was half a guinea, a larger sum than he could prudently afford, 
but his open heart could not refuse the aid that was asked for 
in this form, and the little volume proved, in the end, of incal- 
culable value to him, for, sensible of his indiscretion, he re- 
solved to cover the loss by making a longer day for labor. 
This, though constitutionally disposed to sleep, he resolutely 
accomplished, starting from his bed at a quarter before six 
every morning, till within a short period of his death. It was 
not managed without difficulty. At first, an alarm clock at the 
head of his bed was sufficient, but becoming accustomed to the 
monotony, he placed a pair of tongs across the weight of the 
alarm, so disposed, that when it began to move, the sudden fall 
of the tongs should surely move him also. 

" My father's habits of devotion formed a valuable part of his 
example. Rising thus early, the time from six to seven o'clock 
was always spent in his closet — really a. closet, enclosed by 
double doors. But though thus secluded, and in a remote 
part of the house, we were, at times, near enough, in a room 
below, to be aware of the earnestness of his prayers, which 
were uttered aloud." 

The aim of Isaac Taylor's early years had been devotion 
to the Ministry ; but severe and continued ill health caused 
him to abandon then the hope resumed in later years, as 
we have seen. At twenty-two Mr. Taylor married, and 
the income on which he made this venture for himself 
and his young wife, *' on which he calculated he could 
live" with comfort, was half a guinea certain for three 
days' work in each week, supplied to him by his elder 



MEMOIR, xvu 

brother, Charles, — then in business as a publisher, later 
known as the editor of " Calmet's Dictionary of the 
Bible," — and as much as he could earn the three re- 
maining days on his own account. Thirty pounds of his 
own, with a hundred pounds of his wife's and the furniture 
given her by her mother, constituted the worldly posses- 
sions of the young pair. 

Ann Taylor, the wife, was a woman of unusual strength 
of character and fortitude. She also courted literature ; 
somewhat late in life appearing as an authoress. Her 
books were on practical subjects, such as the duties of 
Children and Parents, advice to Servants ; and some tales 
of the homely scenes of EngHsh country life. With her 
daughter Jane she wrote "The Correspondence between 
a Mother and her Daughter at school." Her first book, 
" Advice to Mothers," was published in 1814. Her books, 
as well as all the Taylors' writings, were deeply tinged 
with the most intense religious views. The whole atmos- 
phere of the home was one of domestic virtue and relig- 
ious fervor, and this sentiment is impressed strongly on 
their books. 

Ann says, after her reminiscences of her father, — 

*' My dear mother was a character more peculiar, and her 
disadvantages had been greater than those of my father. The 
sensibility of her frame, both mental and bodily, was extreme ; 
her affections were strong and lively, and her sufferings (irre- 
spective of bodily pain) from the sorrows and bereavements of 
her seventy-two years, proportionably intense. My mother was 
the eldest of two children, and at six years old lost her father, 
who died of fever at twenty-nine. Of him I know little except 
that he was one of Mr. Whitfield's early converts, and thus 
happily prepared for early death. But he was probably alone 
in his religious preferences, for upon one occasion having 
taken his little girl to hear Mr. Whitfield, she suddenly stood 

h 



xviu MEMOIR, 

up in the pew and exclaimed, * What have you brought mc 
here for, among a pack of Whitfieldites ? ' 

" His anxiety for my mother was more lively than discreet. 
He thought it wise to exercise her infant patience by inflic- 
tions which she recollected as producing paroxysms of anguish. 
He once called her to see a new and favorite toy thrown on 
the fire, hoping in this way to induce a salutary self-control ! " 

The second marriage of Mrs. Taylor's mother made 
her early years unhappy, and she was favored in the mar- 
riage she herself made, for it took her into a congenial 
atmosphere of love and sympathy. Ann, continuing her 
narrative, says : — 

"On their wedding day, April i8, 1781, my parents entered 
their first home, in a house standing back from the street, and 
exactly opposite Islington Church. It was a first floor only, 
but from the back room, the best one, there was a view over an 
extent of country, including the Highgate Hills, and on the 
day of their marriage, though so early in the year, a vine was 
in full leaf over their windows. There, on the 30th of January, 
1782, on which day my youthful father reached his twenty-third 
year, I was born ; and on the 23d of September the year follow- 
ing, their second daughter, Jane Taylor, known, perhaps, I 
might say, on the four continents, and known only for good, 
came into the world ; but at this time they had removed for the 
convenience of business to Red Lion Street, Holborn, then a 
sufiiciently quiet place. 

'' Here their first son, and third child, was bom and here, 
scarcely allowing herself an hour of recreation either for body 
or mind, practising the utmost economy, and with her children 
filling every thought of her heart, my poor mother broke down 
in health, and might have surrendered herself to be the mere 
drudge of her family, had not a wise friend suggested to her 
that it would be well if her husband found in her a companion^ 
as well as a housekeeper and nurse. She took the hint imme- 
diately, and resolved to secure the higher happiness that had 



MEMOIR, XIX 

nearly escaped her. For this purpose she commenced the 
practice of reading aloud at meals, the only time she could 
afford for mental improvement, and for nearly half-a-century it 
supplied her daily pleasure, while it sustained the native power 
of her mind." 

A rapidly increasing family, expenses consequent, ill 
health and sufferings of the children shut up in the murky 
London atmosphere, decided Mr. Taylor to look for a 
country home for his little ones. Economy of course was 
a first consideration in seeking the new home, and for his 
business it must be near London. At last the little vil- 
lage of Lavenham in Suffolk, sixty-three miles from Lon- 
don, was found to have a vacant house suited to the very 
empty pocket of the young father. 

Ann tells of the exodus, and her mother's grief at leav- 
ing early associations and friends, in her bright way. 
She says of the departure : — 

" It was in June 1786, the fine old-fashioned weather of the 
eighteenth century, as my memory pictures it, that the little 
colony set forth — I well remember the freshness of that six 
o'clock on a summer's morning — in a hackney coach for the 
stage. My father had gone before to Lavenham to receive and 
arrange the furniture, and never was ' Queen's Decorator ' 
more busy, more anxious (in some respects more capable), than 
he that everything should appear in tempting order, and in the 
best style of which it was susceptible. His materials, indeed, 
were few, but his taste and contrivance inexhaustible. The 
house, which a cottager described as 'the first grand house 
in Shilling Street,' was indeed so, compared with former 
residences. 

" It was the property of, and had been inhabited by a clergy- 
man. On the ground floor w^ere three parlors, two kitchens, 
and a dairy, together with three other rooms never inhabited ; 
and above them were six large bedrooms. An extensive gar- 
den, well planted, lay behind. A straight broad walk through 



XX MEMOIR, 

the middle was fifty-two yards in length, with an open summer^ 
house on rising ground at one end, and ha-ha fence separating 
it from a meadow, of which we had the use, at the other. 
There was also a large yard, with a pig-sty, uninhabited, till 
my sister Jane and I cleared it out for the purpose of dwelling 
in it ourselves. It was a substantial little building of brick, but, 
having no windows, and the door swinging from the top, it was 
somewhat incommodious, yet there, after lessons, we passed 
many a delighted hour. 

*' For this spacious domain (house and garden I mean, not 
the pig-sty), it will scarcely be credited that my father paid a 
rent of only six pounds a-year, but by such a circumstance the 
perfect out-of-the-wayness of the situation may be conceived. 
Neither coach road nor canal approached it, though I remem- 
ber that the advantage the latter would be to the little town 
was often discussed. The postman's cart, a vehicle covered in 
for passengers, made its enlivening entree every day from Sud- 
bury, seven miles distant, about noon; and the London 
wagon nodded and grated in, I forget how often, or rather 
how seldom, — I believe about once a week. 

*' My dear mother had always the strongest objection to leav- 
ing her little girls to the care of servants, and seldom visited 
where we were not invited, — we were but two, not trouble- 
some, perhaps something of favorites, so that completely so- 
cial as these and similar parties Were, we were often admitted 
to them at an age when now we should scarcely have emerged 
from the nursery. But nurseries at Lavenham, and at that 
time of day, I do not remember. The parlor and the best 
parlor were all that was known beside the kitchens, and thus 
parents and children formed happily but one circle.'* 

This garden was a perfect joy to the sisters. Isaac 
Taylor remembered long after how the neighbors noticed 
the little girls, then five and six years old, early com- 
panions in song, pacing up and down the green walks and 
alleys of the garden, hand in hand, lisping a little couplet 



MEMOIR. . XXI 

of their joint composition. ^^ Nancy and Jenny," as the 
town folk called them, became great favorites. Ann says : 
^' Jane was always the saucy, lively, entertaining little 
thing, — the amusement and the favorite of all that knew 
her. At the baker's shop she used to be placed on the 
kneading-board, in order to recite, preach, narrate, &c., 
to the great entertainment of his many visitors." 

Mrs. Taylor was of a peculiar disposition ; ill health, a 
large family, and the loss of little children, were very de- 
pressing to her. She had lost one child in London, her 
first boy, and before the year was out she lost another at 
Lavenham. All the affectionate assiduities of her good 
husband, and the charms of a country life, failed to make 
her feel at home; but after a while the natural scenes and 
pleasures of the new home touched and cheered her. 

The first winter was a very sad time as her recent griefs 
were fresh, and the frequent absence of her husband on 
his professional work in London left her alone with the 
little girls and a servant. One incident of this sad winter 
was sufficiently startling for the strongest nerves. Mr. 
Taylor was in London at the time. 

" It was a dark and stormy winter's night, the wind roared 
down the huge kitchen chimney, and screamed in the trees across 
the road. * Ann and Jane ' had gone early to bed, the last dear 
babe had recently found its resting-place in the churchyard, 
and my poor mother sat in her grief beside the parlor fire. 
Suddenly a dreadful crash was heard; the kitchen chimney 
was exactly over the room in which we slept, and her instant 
thought was that it had fallen, burying us in its ruins. 

" She ran to the foot of the wide staircase and called. I was 
always a wakeful sleeper, but now there was no answer, and 
she felt no doubt of the terrible meaning of the silence. Her 
sister jumped out of the parlor window, and, my mother and 
servant following, fled up the dark street to Mr. Meeking's, the 



xxu MEMOIR, 

nearest friend in need. She fell on the high steps leading 
up to his shop-door, and his little dog, rushing out, tore off her 
cap before she could regain her feet. ' Oh I Mr. Meeking, Mr. 
Meeking, my children are both killed ! ' * Let 's hope not, 
madam, let 's hope not,' and the worthy old man, with sons, 
staves, and lanterns, hastened back with her to the scene of 
disaster, first, of course, visiting our bed-room, where, holding 
a lantern at the foot of the bed, * Nancy and Jenny ' were seen 
sound asleep. 

"That was enough; and when they had searched in vain 
through all the upper rooms of the large house, they began to 
smile at the alarm as one of imagination only, till entering the 
kitchen a mound of bricks upon the floor, that had fallen down 
the ample chimney, explained what had happened. The cracked 
grate long remained to attest the peril. 

" But my father returned, — returned with sufficient employ- 
ment in his art for months to come. Spring returned also, the 
winter had passed, the rain was over and gone, the time of the 
singing of birds was come, and my dear mother awoke to the 
beauties that surrounded her. Not that the style of country 
was particularly attractive. Suffolk, or at least that part of it, 
swells into shoulders of heavy corn land, with little wood, and 
these undulations shut out extensive prospects ; a small river 
creeps dully through a succession of quiet meadows, and I 
think it must be partly owing to this tameness that a real taste 
for the country was not sensibly awakened in me till ten or 
twelve years later in my history. 

" I can hardly otherwise account either for an impression of 
gloom which, though it was seen under the sunlight of child- 
hood, still hangs over that Lavenham scenery. Enthusiasm 
must have been enthusiastic to be kindled among those flat 
meadows and cold slopes, with their drowsy river. 

*'And, whatever the surrounding country might be, there 
was at Lavenham a large and beautiful garden. We lived not 
in either of the big front parlors, but in a small pleasant room 
opening into it. There my father's high desk, at which, dur- 
ing his whole life, he stood, as the most healthy position, to 



MEMOIR, xxui 

engrave, occupied the corner between the fire and a large win- 
dow; my mother sat on the opposite side, and we had our 
little table and chairs between them. One wing of the prem- 
ises seen from this window was covered with a luxuriant tea 
tree, drooping in long branches, with its small purple flowers ; 
on a bed just opposite was a great cinnamon rose bush, cov- 
ered with bloom ; a small grass plot lay immediately under the 
window, and beyond were labyrinths of flowering shrubs, with 
such a bush of honeysuckle as I scarcely remember to have 
seen an5rwhere. Then there were beds of raspberries, goose- 
berries, and currants, espalier'd walks, ample kitchen garden, 
walls and palings laden with fruit, grass and gravel walks, a 
honeysuckle arbor, and an open seated summer-house : flour- 
ishing standard fruit trees, and no end of flowers and rustic 
garden-seats. 

" Here our habits and, to some degree, our tastes were 
formed, and here began our education. In that little back 
parlor we were taught the formal rudiments, and in the garden 
and elsewhere, constantly under the eye of our parents, we fell 
in with more than is always included in the catalogue of school 
learning at so much per quarter. Books were a staple com- 
modity in the house. From my mother's habit of reading aloud 
at breakfast and at tea, we were always picking up something ; 
to every conversation we were auditors, and, I think, quiet 
ones, for, having no nursery, the parlor would have been 
intolerable otherwise. 

" There was a large room adjoining, having a glass door into 
it, and there, or in the garden, we were at liberty to romp. A 
closet in this room was allowed us as a baby-house, round the 
walls of which were arranged our toys; but I must acknowledge 
that here we were not the aborigines, an interminable race of 
black ants had taken previous possession, and we could only 
share and share alike with them. 

" I do not know how far children so completely invent little 
histories for themselves as we did. We most frequently per- 
sonated two poor women making a hard shift to live ; or we 
were ' aunt and niece/ Jane the latter and I the former ; or we 



XXIV MEMOIR, 

acted a fiction entitled * the twin sisters/ or another, the * two 
Miss Parks/ And we had, too, a great taste for royalty, and 
were not a little intimate with various members of the royal 
family. Even the two poor w^omen, ' Moll and Bet,' were so 
exemplary in their management and industry as to attract the 
notice of their Royal Highnesses the Princesses (Svhen George 
the Third was King'). When these two estimable cottagers 
were the subject of our personation, we occupied (weather per- 
mitting) either the summer-house or the ci-devant pig-sty. On 
the grassy ascent upon which the summer-house stood, termin- 
ating the long walk, the grass was mixed with a small plant, I 
fancy trefoil, but I have never been botanist enough to know ; 
however, its name to us was Bob, why, I cannot imagine, unless 
from the supposed similarity of the three letters to its three 
small leaves. This we used to gather for winter food (so 
hard bestead were we), and the seeds of the mallow we called 
cheeses, and laid them up in store also. These were simple, 
healthy, inexpensive toys and pleasures, and, having such re- 
sources always at hand at home, and without excitements from 
abroad, we were never burdensome with the teasing enquiry, 
* What shall we play at } What shall we do ? ' Yet we had 
always assistance at hand if needed. Both father and mother 
were accessible, and many a choice entertainment did we owe 
to their patient contrivances. My father, especially, was never 
weary of inventing, for our amusement or instruction. I have 
still a little glass case containing a cottage cut in cork, a few 
trees of moss, a piece of looking-glass for pond, a cork hay- 
stack, and so forth (a Suffolk idyll), which was one of these 
productions. Another was a small grotto fitted up with spars 
and minerals. But there was one of these home-made toys 
which I can hardly think of now without pleasure ; it was a 
landscape painted on cardboard, cut out and placed at different 
distances, through the lanes of which, by means of a wire turn- 
ing underneath, there slowly wound a loaded wagon and other 
carriages ; it was contained in a box about seven inches by 
twelve, and two in depth, with a glass in front. 

" Of course my dear mother, with health never strong, and 



MEMOIR. XXV 

all the needlework of the household on her hands, could not 
undertake our entire instruction. Reading, the Needle, and the 
Catechism, we were taught by her, and as my father was con- 
stantly engraving at the high desk in the same room, it was 
easy for him to superintend the rest. We were never severely 
treated, though both my parents were systematic disciplina- 
rians. But I record one instance of mistaken punishment only 
to show how possible it is, when a child is confused or alarmed, 
for parents to fall into that error. It must have been when I 
was very young, for it was owing to a supposed obstinacy in 
not spelling the word thy. I had been told it repeatedly, t-h-y, 
in the same lesson, still at the moment it every time unaccount- 
ably slipped from the memory. My mother could only attribute 
it to wilful perverseness, though I believe that was a disposi- 
tion I could not be charged with. She felt, however, so fully 
persuaded that I knew, and would not say, that she proceeded 
to corporal punishment, very rarely administered, but not so 
entirely abandoned as is the fashion now." 

Jane began as early as her eighth year to write more or 
less. A year or two earlier, it was noticed by her parents 
that she had furnished her memory with many historical 
anecdotes in the course of the instruction given her, and 
she used to recite these with such variations as the inspi- 
ration of the moment or a passing mood might suggest. 
As soon as she began to write at all, though the idea was 
never suggested to her by her parents, and no other per- 
sons had the confidence of the children who would have 
thought of such a thing, she cherished the fancy of writ- 
ing a book. These childish scribblings all appear to have 
been prepared with a view to publication. Prefaces, 
title-pages, introductions and dedications, are among the 
MSS. preserved by the Taylor family, all the early spon- 
taneous work of this untrained child. 

The following preface appears to have been written in 
her tenth year : — 



XXVI MEMOIR. 



PREFACE. 



To be a poetess I don't aspire. 

From such a title humbly I retire ; 

But now and then a line I try to write ; 

Though bad they are, — not worthy human sight. 

Sometimes into my hand I take a pen, 
Without the hope of aught but mere chagrin , 
I scribble, then leave off in sad despair, 
And make a blot in spite of all my care. 

I laugh and talk, and preach a sermon well ; 
Go about begging, and your fortune tell : 
As to my poetry, indeed *t is all 
• As good and worse by far than none at all. 

Have patience yet I pray, peruse my book ; 
Although you smile when on it you do look : 
I know that in 't there *s many a shocking failure ; 
But that forgive — the author is Jane Taylor. 

About a year later she addressed a poem to her father, 
beginning : — 

PETITION. 

Ah, dear papa ! did you but know 

The trouble of your Jane, 
I 'm sure you would relieve me now, 

And ease me of my pain. 

Although your garden is but small, 

And more indeed you crave, 
There *s one small bit, not used at all, 

And this I wish to have. 

The garden was evidently a sacred spot as in olden 
times, haunted by the Muses and Apollo : the little vota- 
ries of poetry found all the prose and poetry of their young 
lives in its sweet seclusion. 



MEMOIR. xxvii 

Ann, in continuing her recollections of their early years, 
says : — 

" The precise hours allotted to our instruction I now for- 
get, but they were regular, and regularly kept. I remember 
pleading once in vain for some temporary deviation. We 
breakfasted at eight, dined at half-past one, took tea at five ; 
then at eight we went to bed, and my father and mother 
supped at nine. On Sundays, however, we were indulged to 
sit up to supper, a treat indeed. 

" Of our Sunday habits I am thankful to remember that, 
though never gloomy, they were after the olden fashion, — 
strict. It was a day unlike to other days — a feeling I should 
wish to preserve as a perpetual safeguard. I will not say how 
much I was profited by accompanying my father, at seven 
o'clock on a winter's morning, to the early prayer meeting, as 
I conclude, to be out of the way during early duties at home. 
The only vivid recollection now in my memory is of the aston- 
ishing noise made by the blower in raising the vestry fire. 
This, with the assiduities of Mrs. Snelling, the pew-opener, have 
survived the friction of much more than half-a-century. As 
Lavenham lies embedded in clay, and there was neither paving 
nor lighting. Water Street, which frequently well deserv^ed its 
name, offered sometimes difficulties to Sunday chapel-goers, 
and not a few of the gentlemen wore pattens. 

" Occasionally, when my mother was not well enough to go 
from home on the Sunday, I have been left to stay with her, 
and one of our quiet Sundays was signalized by an incident 
that shook my nerves. She had fallen asleep in the little back 
parlor, leaving me sole guardian of the premises. Suddenly 
I heard a tremendous noise somewhere in the kitchen, a 
knocking and a battering so long and loud, that nothing 
less than determined burglars could account for. My mother 
was so poorly that I dared not wake her, and even then so 
deaf that she did not hear the noise. With inexpressible 
terror I listened and watched to see the ruffians either enter 
the room or emerge from the back door into the garden, and, 



xxviii MEMOIR. 

only eight or nine years old as I might be, armed myself with 
the poker for the worst. If I had not happened to catch sight of 
the culprit at the precise moment of escape, the mystery might 
have remained to this day unaccounted for. But I did; an 
immense dog issued suddenly with prodigious speed from the 
back door with the remains of a large, deep, stone milk-jar 
about his neck ! Doubtless a small quantity of milk had been 
left at the bottom, the poor fellow had unwittingly thrust in 
his nose, the neck was narrow, the milk beyond his tongue tip ; 
he thrust and thrust, till he found himself in dreadful custody. 
Then began the sound that had chilled my blood as he banged 
his portable prison about the kitchen floor, till the bottom giving 
way, he made use of recovered daylight, though still with a 
good portion of the pot about his neck, and decamped through 
the garden, wearing, to my astonished eyes, something like a 
close cottage bonnet. Whither his terror carried him I never 
heard, though if he scampered through the town in such a 
guise I think it would have made some stir. 

" And another Sunday afternoon had its terror. From my 
earliest childhood I had a nervous apprehension of the sudden 
death of those about me, so that any inequality in the breath- 
ing, if asleep, or anything unusual in appearance, excited my 
alarm. This time, my father being slightly unwell, I was left 
at home alone with him. For our mutual edification he read 
aloud Wilcox's Sermons, not the liveliest volume in the world, 
and after a time I perceived something very singular in his 
pronunciation and tone, a confusion of syllables, a lengthening 
and a pause ! I thought he was going to die ! He did not 
die, but soon safely recovered ; yet it was years afterwards 
that, recalling the symptoms of this appalling seizure, the 
true character of it occurred to me, my good father had been 
— almost asleep ! 

" I had always a conscience, whether or not enlightened, 
yet always a conscience, and especially with regard to the 
Sabbath. One Sunday I was myself alone at home, from 
some trifling ailment, and employed the morning in reading 
a little book by the Rev. George Burder, containing the 



MEMOIR. XXIX 

* History of Master Goodchild/ and various other strictly 
Sunday readings. Towards the end is the fable of the kite 
and the string, but this stopped me — 2. fable might not belong 
to Sunday reading ? — and I left the book open at the place 
till my father returned from Meeting, to know whether I 
might proceed. He silenced my apprehensions, while approv- 
ing the hesitation." 

It is interesting to note the first stirrings of poetry in 
the young mind. Ann says, — 

" The time at which I began to string my thoughts (if 
thoughts) into measure I cannot correctly ascertain. It could 
not be after I was ten years old, and I think when only seven 
or eight, and arising from a feeling of anxiety respecting my 
mother's safety during illness. Not wishing (I conclude) to 
betray myself by asking for paper at home, I purchased a 
sheet of foolscap from my friend, Mr. Meeking, and filled it 
with verses in metre imitated from Dr. Watts, at that time the 
' only poet on my shelves. What became of this effusion I do 
not know, but I should be glad to exchange for it, if I could, 
any of my later ones, — 

* Not for its worth, we all agree, 
But merely for its oddity,* 

as Swift says of learning in ladies. 

"The earliest stanza that dwells in my memory, whether 
belonging to this production or not I cannot tell, is the 
following : — 

' Dark and dismal was the weather, 
Winter into horror grew ; 
Rain and snow came down together, 
Everything was lost to view.' 

" Certain it is, anyway, that from about this date it became 
my perpetual amusement to scribble, and some large literary 
projects occupied my reveries. A poetic rendering of the fine 
moral history of Master Headstrong; a poem intended as 
antecedent to the Iliad ; a new version of the Psalms ; and an 



XXX MEMOIR. 

argumentative reply to Winchester on Future Punishment, 
were among these early projects, and more or less executed." 

She adds : — 

" I have certainly suffered by allowing the small disposable 
time of my youth to expenfl itself in writing rather than in 
reading. My mind was in this way stinted by scanty food. 
Of that 1 am fully sensible, and leave it as a warning to whom- 
soever it may concern. If I had not breathed a tolerably 
healthy atmosphere it would have been lean indeed. But 
there was always something to be imbibed; either from my 
mother's reading at meals, or that in which we afterwards all 
took turn in the workroom ; from my father's untiring aptness 
to teach, his regular habit of settling all questions by reference 
to authorities, and the books that were always passing through 
the family. Wherever my father moved there soon arose a 
book society, if there had not been one before. One word, 
however, about the reading aloud at meals. I believe my 
mother fostered thereby a habit of despatching hers too 
quickly, by which her digestion was permanently injured ; 
and, again, it hindered our acquiring readiness in conversa- 
tion. To listen, not to talk, became so much a habit with us, 
as rather to impair fluency of expression — at least in speech." 

One can easily imagine the young Taylors must have 
seemed marvels of genius to village people, where the gen- 
try were so illiterate as Mrs. Gilbert says. The townsfolk 
she thinks less ignorant. At a party among the upper cir- 
cles of Lavenham, '' in honor of a bride who had belonged 
to this higher grade, the lady addressed my father across 
the room with, * Mr. Taylor, who wrote Shakespeare ? * 
The husband, feigning an amused laugh, could only say, 
' Just hear my wife ! ' It was a question none of the 
humbler folk there needed to ask." 

Mrs. Gilbert claims for her father the honor of being the 
originator of the Sunday school. She says he collected 



MEMOIR, XXXI 

one at Lavenham as early as 1790. Robert Raikes of 
Gloucester has always had the credit of founding the first 
school, but Mrs. Gilbert's claim, which seems only just, 
proves that there is nothing new under the sun. 

Sometimes the busy household at Lavenham had a 
little diversion. Ann says : — 

" Quiet, and destitute of amusement as Lavenham was, we 
yet had our holiday seasons and pleasures, all in keeping with 
life in the country. In very fine weather, the tea, or even dinner, 
in the garden, for which there was a choice of spots whether 
in sunshine or in shade, was an occasion to the children. But 
the great thing was a whole day's ramble, on what would now 
be called a picnic excursion, — father, mother, children, and 
servants ; my father with his pencil, my mother with a book, 
the servant with provisions. And wherever there was a cottage, 
a stump, or a tree, worth sketching, there we gathered round 
him (those of us who did not prefer to hunt for violets), and 
my mother read till the sketch was finished. Well I remem- 
ber my father's signal for attracting our notice to any slip of 
the * picturesque ' that might catch his eye : * Lookye, lookye 
there ? ' 

" But of all our rural holidays the most exciting was an 
annual visit to Melford fair. Melford was, perhaps is, a very 
pretty town of a single street, terminating at the upper end in a 
large, open, and extremely pleasant green, with respectable 
houses on one side, a fine old church at the top, and fringed on 
the other by the park of Sir Harry Parker. On this green was 
spread the fair, not, as my recollection serves, rude and riotous, 
but attracting an assemblage of respectable country people 
from several miles round. Yet the fair made but a part of the 
pleasure, for on the return walk of about four miles was there 
not tea at Mr. and Mrs. Blackadder's, a worthy couple, the per- 
fect personification of farmer and wife far up in Suffolk, say a 
hundred years ago, for they were still quite of the olden times. 
Their little homestead was the very centre of old-fashioned 
hospitality, and tea from the best china in the best parlor was 



xxxu MEMOIR. 

no small delight. Best parlor, however, I should not call it, for 
the ' House, or houseplace ' as it is called in Lincolnshire, on 
the other side of the entrance, could not aspire to anything like 
so genteel a name. There the ' min ' were admitted to regale 
themselves, — master and men together after their daily labor, 
unless there was * company.' 



r ' '^ 



The excitement of an annual fair was also to be had at 
Lavenham. The little Taylors were able by peeping from 
a dark, mysterious attic chamber, — a horror to them in the 
daytime, — to gain a glimpse of the fire-works let off by the 
boys at Mr. Blower's young gentlemen's school, on Guy 
Fawkes day. They knew their father would order them 
to bed ; so they braved the dangers of the dim chamber 
haunted by their fancies, rather than let him see them. 
Then too Guy Fawkes appeared in all his glory, making an 
immense excitement for their young minds. 

As we shall see by the description given of the house- 
hold ways of the Taylors by Ann, ii was a very strictly 
ordered, busy and methodical world into which these little 
maidens, singing hand in hand, came. This work-a-day 
world was early seen by them in its sternest aspect. Ann 
really reproaches herself at length for building castles in 
the air, to the extent of imagining how some poor people of 
the village would feel if she helped them to a home. She 
vividly relates the whole affair, and the singular pleasure 
she took in breaking to them the secret. Then after 
dressing them all in clean, new clothes, of which she had 
even chosen the colors, she took them in procession, " two 
and two to their new habitation." 

What a strange, strange contrast between the inner 
workings of such a poetic fancy, and the outside life which 
encompassed and influenced it, so that the little creature 
actually thought her pretty dreams wrong, and calls the 
habit " ruinous, and an evil " ! Jane, too, unconsciously felt 



MEMOIR. xxxiu 

her wings beat against the bars. The bright dreams of 
childhood must have been sadly depressed in such a mental 
and moral atmosphere. The hardest part of it is that the 
father and mother were so kind, affectionate, and well- 
meaning. The story of the hen who raised a brood of 
young ducks, comes to mind as one reads of the regrets 
and pain felt, as these bright young creatures tried to re- 
press their natural gifts of poetry, and to banish the airy 
dreams which visited them. Later in life, under the 
increase of a very marked religious sentiment, never for- 
eign to her but exaggerated by circumstances, Jane con- 
fessed and lamented the tendency. *' I know,'' she said, 
"that I have sometimes lived so much in a castle as 
almost to forget that I lived in a house." 

In June, 1789, Mrs. Taylor took her two little girls to 
London. She had been in the country three years, and 
had a great desire to visit her friends in town. This 
fancy was increased by the expected visit of George IIL 
to St. Paul's, to return thanks for his recovery from the 
first attack of insanity. Ann says it was '* a scene of ex- 
citement little calculated to continue a sane condition, but 
there was probably some unacknowledged political reason 
for amusing the public by the fearful venture. Among 
the thousands who on that occasion flocked to the me- 
tropolis were my mother and her two little girls. I was 
then, June, 1789, somewhat more than seven, and Jane 
not quite six years old. We were to travel by the Bury 
coach, which passed through Sudbury, seven miles dis- 
tant, as early as seven in the morning on its road to Lon- 
don. Between one and two, therefore, that summer 
morning we left our beds in order to start by ' Billy 
East,* by which must be understood the postman's cart. 
Loaded, and covered in as we were, behind our single 
Rosinante, I soon began to feel very sick; and being 



xxxiv MEMOIR. 

asked how I was, replied, * I am inclined for what I have 
no inclination to.'" 

She recalled very little of this early London visit ; but 
here and there a trace hngered in her memory. She 
says, — 

" We had friends in Fleet Street, on the left-hand side, look- 
ing up to St. Paul's, and there we were to take our stations. A 
better position could scarcely have been selected from Avhich to 
witness the cavalcade. We went to the house at five in the 
morning of the 25th of June, the room, a first floor, being fitted 
up with seats rising from the windows a considerable height 
behind, but we as little folks were happily placed in front. 
There we waited, oh, so long ! There was amusement, how- 
ever, in watching the throngs below less fortunate than our- 
selves, and the ladies in the room, many in full dress with their 
hair curled and powdered, and head-dresses adorned with white 
ribbons carr}^ing in gold letters the words, * God save the 
king.* At length, towards noon, the splendid pageant ar- 
rived, and fortunately for us a carriage with several of the 
princesses was detained a considerable time under our windows. 
They were dressed in white, and some sort of golden ornament 
lay in the lap of one of them. Poor things ! I have thought 
since, for the lot of English princesses has not always been 
enviable. So the cavalcade passes into the mists of memory, 
which refuses to produce more of that long forgotten day. 

** The evening of the following day London was splendidly 
illuminated. We children saw a little of it in Holborn, but my 
poor mother was induced reluctantly to accompany a party to 
the India House, which was reported particularly brilliant, 
and from that night dated much of her after life of suffering. 
Whether from fear of fire, or some local accident, the plugs in 
that neighborhood were up and the streets under water, while, 
to make matters worse, in the midst of the overwhelming 
crowd both my mother's shoes were trodden off. Many others 
it seems were equally unfortunate, for in the course of the 
night she met a woman with a barrowf ul of lost shoes, amongst 



MEMOIR. XXXV 

which she had the strange luck to pick out first one, and then 
the other of her own ! The cold thus taken, however, became 
so threatening that my father was summoned to town, and 
though she recovered the immediate effects, her health was 
never sound afterwards." 

Prosperity began to brighten the home of Mr. Taylor. 
Some admirable work on an edition of Shakspeare, illus- 
trated by him for his brother, caused Mr. Boydell to offer 
him work for his great edition of Shakspeare. For his 
plate of the death of Rizzio, by Opie, Mr. Taylor received 
250 guineas. He exhibited it at the Society of Arts, and 
it obtained the gold medal and a premium of ten guineas, 
as the best engraving of the year. 

The life of an engraver is full of anxious hours : who 
but an engraver knows the meaning of a " touched proof ? " 
says Ann. A few alterations made in as many moments 
by the artist mean days or weeks of work for the engraver. 
The parlor at Lavenham was quite a show place for the 
townspeople when Stothard's " Henry VIII. meeting Ann 
Boleyn," containing sixteen figures larger than life, filled 
the side of the great room. Others came in rapid succes- 
sion, and apprentices were taken in order to lighten .he 
details of the work. A printing press was bought for 
'' proving," and a young woman hired to work it. 

Mr. Taylor seemed to be favored by fortune, and his 
prospects of success appeared assured, when a most painful 
rheumatic fever resulting from exposure confined him, 
helpless and suffering, in his bed. For three months the 
poor man was in his bed, and little hope was given of his 
recovery. After ^v^ months he was able to appear 
among his family; ''but there were large bills to pay, — 
besides physicians' fees, ^30 to the surgeon, the cost of a 
bushel of phials left as perquisites on our hands," — innu- 
merable derangements to rectify, anxious work to resume, 



xxxvi MEMOIR. 

and strength wasted all but to the grave to recover ; but, 
nothing dismayed, he took his place among various and 
pressing duties, with thankfulness, faith, and hope. 

A new house for his little flock was necessitated by the 
impossibility of longer hiring the first ; and by buying an 
old house, and repairing and contriving and building, Mr. 
Taylor contrived a home and plenty of room for his work- 
shops. Ann says of this great event in a child's hfe : — 

" At the mid-summer of 1793 ^^^ ^^"^ house was deemed 
habitable, and thither, as to a new life, we were delighted to 
remove. By his unfailing contrivance, the house was made to 
suit us exactly, and the garden, beautiful and pleasant, to our 
hearths desire. The best parlor (a * drawing-room ' was not 
then known in Lavenham), till a little of the pecuniary pres- 
sure was worked down, was left unfurnished at the disposal of 
' Ann and Jane ' to whip their tops in, but the common parlor 
was as pretty and comfortable as it could be, with a door and a 
large bay window into the garden, and a sliding panel for con- 
venient communication with the kitchen. China closets and 
store closets were large and commodious. The garden, too, 
was an especially nice one. Happily there were several well- 
grown trees already on the ground, and a trellis arbor covered 
with honeysuckle, stood on a rising ground underneath a pic- 
turesque old pear tree. A poultry yard, containing sometimes 
seventy fowls of different sorts, w^as on the premises behind, 
and an excavated and paved pond for ducks. 

" We had, in our new house, a large room, running the entire 
length of one part of the building; this was appropriated to 
business. My father^s high desk was placed at the upper end ; 
a row of windows facing the yard, was occupied by the appren- 
tices, and another, overlooking the garden, was filled by the 
children pursuing their education.'* 

Pupils were taken, and apprentices also added to the 
busy family circle ; yet the large household never boasted 



MEMOIR. xxxvu 

but one maid of all work. Punctual, orderly habits were 
inculcated, and methodical and regular supervision in 
workshop, kitchen, and house, kept all running pleasantly 
and smoothly. Mrs. Taylor was evidently a notable 
housewife. The mother of eleven living children, her- 
self an authoress, she yet found time to instruct her 
daughters in all the feminine occupations suitable to their 
station. 

Ann made a visit with her father and mother in Isling- 
ton, about this time, renewing friendships and making 
some new friends ; among whom the Conders became life- 
long intimates. Josiah Conder, the editor and author, 
was one of the children of this family, and, with his sis- 
ters, soon became very much attached to the Taylors. 

During the exciting times in England, which accom- 
panied the fearful scenes enacted in France during the 
Reign of Terror, and the succeeding horrors of the Revo- 
lution, dissenters were the objects of popular dislike. 
Priestley was mobbed, his house destroyed, and many 
others suffered. Even the quiet town of Lavenham, and 
the inofFensive Taylors, shared the trials of the time. 
They were only saved, once, by the coolness and courage 
of the clergyman of the parish, who urged the mob to 
leave Mr. Taylor's house, which they were about to de- 
stroy, by the plea of his sister's ill-health. The Church 
of England's authority probably saved them from a very 
distressing calamity. 

Mr. Taylor had long been a deacon of the Independent 
meeting of Lavenham, and in the absence of the minister, 
often held services in his own house. His earlv aspira- 
tions had been directed to the ministry, only ill health 
had barred the way. Mr. Hickman was called to another 
charge, and he urged his society to ask Mr. Taylor to 
assume the pastorate. Some jealousy was felt at the 



xxxvill MEMOIR. 

elevation of one from among them, though many wished 
his acceptance. Of course, he did not accept a divided 
charge. This condition of affairs being made known, 
neighboring clergymen called on him to relieve them, and 
presently an Independent society at Colchester called him, 
and he accepted their invitation. 

Colchester was a gay garrison town, containing four- 
teen parishes and twelve churches, some in a rather dis- 
mantled condition, with dilapidations dating from the 
rough work of the civil war, and especially from the siege 
of the town by Fairfax. Many parts of the town wall 
were then perfect, and the fine ruins of St. Botolph's 
Priory and St. John's Gate, with the Castle which had 
braved the storms of a thousand years in one or another 
form, and the broken; ivied tower of St. Martin's Church, 
made a very picturesque view, and gave historic interest 
to a place full of association for artist and antiquary. 

Dissent was not fashionable, intelligent, or popular in 
Colchester. The " Round Meeting," which held a thou- 
sand people when full, — and it was generally well filled, — 
was presided over by a dull old man whose perfunctory 
services interested no one. There were a few wealthy and 
substantial families connected with the dissenting chapel 
to which Mr. Taylor was called, but as a rule no young 
people of education, position, or intelligence were to be 
found among the ranks of Nonconformists in the town. 
The dissenters of the place were too often without thought 
or interest in their church, and habit only made them at- 
tendant at chqpel or meeting. There was little hfe either 
in the Established Churches, and religious feeling was at 
a low ebb. 

Mr. Taylor, who was a man full of life and spirit, threw 
so much animation and vigor into his preaching and lec- 
turing, that thronged houses soon gathered to enjoy his 



MEMOIR, xxxix 

services. He still occupied his days with engraving, and 
his evenings were passed in village preaching when not 
engaged in his own parish. 

Ann was fourteen at the time of this removal to Col- 
chester, and Jane a year younger. So childlike were they, 
that their earliest care was to fit up anew their doll's 
house ; but Colchester life, and the rapid development 
which new scenes and faces brought to their expanding 
minds, drove the dolls into oblivion. Ann was much 
liked, and received many attentions, as well as Jane. The 
friendships and intimacies made at Colchester were very 
gratifying. Several excellent offers were dechned by them, 
and their presence was most welcome at social gatherings. 
Ann had never cared for Lavenham outside the charmed 
circle of home, but Colchester she loved for itself. 

Years after, she said of it to her children : — 

" It is a nice old town, and the country has just that cheerful 
pleasantness about it which is inviting to the evening walk or 
the social ramble. The town, clean, open, and agreeable, is 
situated on a healthful gravelly hill, descending towards the 
north and east, commanding from many points a view of the 
Colne, the meadows through which it winds, and the horizon 
fringed with wood, — 'the High Woods,' which formed the most 
delightful portion of our longer evening excursions. Large 
barracks adjoined the town on its southern side, and an air of 
business and activity was given to the place as a great military 
station, while the High Street was quite a gay promenade. The 
music of the evening bugle is still a pleasant note in my ears, as 
well as that of the eight o'clock curfew bell from the tower of 
Old St Nicholas/' 

She often spoke of the beauties of the town as seen 
from the meadows, which lay to the north of it, and made 
a delightful walk. 

A sudden change in the state of the foreign market for 



xl MEMOIR. 

engraving, closed by the continental wars, produced great 
distress in the profession. Many young men were driven 
from the practice of the art to other occupations, and 
tried veterans like Mr. Taylor found a lucrative and ab- 
sorbing employment sunk into a precarious and uncertain 
business, in which they could not support a family. 

The move made by Mr. Taylor to Colchester was in- 
deed fortunate. What seemed a renunciation of some 
worldly advantages, in becoming a minister and devoting 
more precious time to that good work, instead of his art 
in which he was earning large sums, was for a time a 
great blessing. The moderate stipend of a dissenting 
clergyman, eked out by taking pupils in engraving and 
the help of his daughters, was barely sufficient to keep his 
large family in comfort. Wants were limited to necessi- 
ties, but even necessities were many in so large a circle of 
little ones. 

Ann records her engraving life as dating from July, 
1797, when she was in her sixteenth year. Jane began 
the study at the same time. In order that they might not 
lose their taste for domestic employments, it was wisely 
decided that they should work only on alternate weeks, 
resuming each her household duties ; the one employed 
in the work being known that week as '' Supra,'' the 
housewife as '* Infra," — an improvement on the name 
'' Betty," which had been bestowed before on the sister 
keeping house. Washing and fine ironing, sweeping, 
dusting, and cooking, all were expected of " Infra." And 
sewing was in some way interpolated, for they made their 
own clothes as soon as it was considered possible. 

A large workroom joining the main house was the 
scene of Ann and Jane's daily life for many years. Pupils 
filled other tables, and there also their brothers, Isaac 
and Martin, began a life of toil. Ann says : — 



MEMOIR. xli 

" Happy days, — mornings, evenings, — Happy years ! — 
have I spent in that shabby old room ! From the windows 
we could just see over the garden, and beyond the roofs. Mile 
End church and parsonage in the pretty distance, reminding 
us of the evening walk by which the day's business was so 
often closed. 

" Our many callers in after years never thought of finding us 
* in the parlor,' like other young ladies, but regularly turned 
into a back yard from the street, ascended the short flight of 
brick stairs, and placed themselves each on some wooden stool 
beside Jane and myself, watching what they were sometimes 
pleased to call our ' elegant art.' I must say we were never 
ashamed of it, and why need we have been ? We had, I 
might almost say, the honor of stepping first on a line now 
regarded as nearly the one thing to be accomplished, the 
respectable, remunerative, appropriate employment of young 



Jane did not much enjoy the drudgery of this life. 
Her more lively nature and literary aspirations made her 
dislike the monotony of the work. 

An article on " Female Industry,'^ in the " Edinburgh 
Review" for 1859, in alluding to employments suitable 
for women, named the Taylors, saying, *' The young wo- 
men were incessantly at work, so as to be abundantly 
weary of it, as Jane's letters plainly show." Ann re- 
sented this statement, and said : — 

" The life in that * shabby old room * was a happy one ; and 
if Jane did at times dislike the monotony, it never reached 
habitual weariness. For myself, what 1 have said, I have said, 
and that most truly. Nay, the time has been, when I have 
risen in the morning with exhilaration to put on the brown- 
hoUand bib and apron, with sleeves to match, in preparation 
for two or three days of * bitmg,' — this not very charming 
employment frequently falling to my lot. 



xlii MEMOIR, 

" Well, then, as to * biting.' A plate of polished copper (not 
steel at that time), of the size intended for the print, having 
been thickly covered with a sort of waxy ground, the subject to 
be engraved is etched upon it with a steel point, as you might 
say drawn with a strong needle, much as you might with a 
pencil or pen, but cutting through the ground to the surface of 
the copper. The lines, however, are of no depth, and of course 
all alike, and to increase and vary both depth and width, the 
work must be ' bit.* To effect this a wall of wax is raised 
round the plate, with a spout, moulded at one corner, by which 
to pour off the liquid, and a dilute preparation of aquafortis 
(nitric acid) is poured on, which eats away the copper in the 
exposed lines. It is now a delicate matter to watch the opera- 
tion, ascertaining when the needful depth of the lightest por- 
tion is attained ; at the moment, the acid is poured off, water 
plentifully applied, and then dried out of the lines. A thin 
coat of varnish is now painted over the parts that are suffi- 
ciently deepened, technically speaking they are * stopped out,* 
and the process of biting is recommenced. But all this is 
subject to accidents ; and one trying misfortune is, when the 
ground, from some defect in its composition, or from being laid 
on under too great a heat, * blows up,' as it is called, and the 
acid penetrates to the copper where it is not wanted, causing 
innumerable specks which must be immediately stopped out, 
and requiring a grievous amount of labor afterwards with the 
* graver * to repair. An engraving after Ostade, the interior of 
a Dutch kitchen, was etched by me, and covered almost en- 
tirely with work, but in biting, the ground blew up largely, and 
it was my business for three months afterwards to sit at the 
patient repair of it, speck by speck. I should not wonder if 
during this time I did feel ' abundantly weary.' So much for 
weariness, and for * biting,' a part of the process for which it 
will be seen there was good reason to be armed with bib, 
apron, and sleeves." 

Jemima Taylor, the youngest of this great family, on 
reading this passage by Ann about the *' biting " and other 



MEMOIR. xliii 

dull processes described with so much enthusiasm, gave 
an insight into the good woman's character when she ex- 
claimed, *' Ah ! Ann was always such a dog trot." 

Ann and Jane were considered by a large number of 
young friends very clever girls, and of the two Ann was 
supposed to take the lead. Jane herself had this impres- 
sion, when she addressed these lines to her sister: — 

"My Ann, you had taken the lyre ; 

And I, from the pattern you set, 
Attempted the art to acquire ; 

And often we play a duet. 
But those who in grateful return, 

Have said they were pleased with the lay, 
The discord could always discern ; 

And yet I continued to play.'* — Jane Taylor. 

Curiously enough the public considered Jane as the 
leader, and publishers, taking advantage of this, Ann said, 
would often announce, "by * Jane Taylor,' when 'Ann 
Taylor ' was the guilty person." '' Dear Jane never needed 
to steal," she adds, '' while I could not afford to lose." 

Ann's first published production was an election song, 
for home reading only. It happened to be seen, and was 
evidently valuable enough for one side to print for party 
purposes. She was somewhat dazzled by her appearance 
in print, and gives the date as 1797. 

Sometime before a friend accused her of literary vanity, 
and she felt the remark so keenly that she made " a mag- 
nanimous conflagration '' of all her MSS., and " resolved to 
go humbly " all her days. For a time her favorite amuse- 
ment was laid aside ; but it could not be borne, and she 
resumed her pen. The necessity of giving expression to 
the emotions constantly roused by various objects of daily 
life, was too strong ; she continued her poetical effusions. 



xliv MEMOIR. 

'in 1798 the girls entered with great enjoyment into the 
formation of a little literary society proposed by their 
father. The title '* Umbelliferous Society " was intended 
to indicate the buds, blossoms, and flowers so gathered 
on one stem ; and it was suggested by Mr. Taylor. This 
society, which was intended to stimulate the fancy, and 
encourage the study of literature, lasted about two years. 
Of the mode of life at this time, when full of business, and 
also trying to save every moment for self-improvement, 
Ann wrote : — 

" We always breakfasted at eight o'clock, were allowed an 
hour's interval for dinner, half-an-hour for tea, and closed the 
daily routine in ' that dear old workroom' (as more than one 
of our friends called it) at eight in the evening. It was chiefly, 
therefore, or according to the letter of the law, only by rising 
early and supping as late as half-past nine, that we could effect 
anything. But I must confess to having had pencil and paper 
generally so near at hand, that a flying thought could be caught 
by a feather, even when engraving or biting was going on ; or, 
in cases of extremity, when it was to be feared that all would 
escape me before eight o'clock came. I have made a sudden 
exit, and in honest haste and unintelligible scribble, pinioned 
the fancy or the lines to the first slip of waste paper I could 
find, there to abide till happy evening. Instead of engraving, 
I was going to say etching, but this would be scarcely correct, 
for while etching it was generally desirable to keep the * point ' 
unchanged in the fingers from meal to meal. Only a very 
beautiful point indeed would be so exquisitely true, that no 
inequality of stroke would result from changing it. To render 
the point perfect by grinding all the angles, was often not a* 
little difiicult, and would cost much time ; as a hone for this 
purpose, a fragment of Roman brick, picked up among the 
ruins in the town, proved the finest and hardest substance we 
could meet with. And if I have said ' bitings/ it must be under- 
stood to mean, at times when the water was off, and the plate 
safely dry." 



MEMOIR, xlv 

About this time the indefatigable Mr. Taylor was urged 
by some friends to invite the public to his lectures on as- 
tronomy, illustrated by diagrams, which were rough and 
picturesque, but very effective. He continued these lectures 
to full rooms, for some time. He prepared successive 
courses on astronomy, anatomy, geography, geometry, 
mechanics, and general history. 

The removal of some friends to Bergholt, — ** Con- 
stable's Country," as it has been called, since his hand 
made its rural scenes familiar, — caused an intimacy be- 
tween the families Of the early introduction there is an 
amusing anecdote, told by Ann with great good-nature : 
** We had been invited to walk over to Bergholt to see his 
paintings, together with a portrait recently taken of him by 
his friend Mr. Reinagle ; and availing ourselves of this, 
one morning, we found his mother, Mrs. Constable, a 
shrewd-looking, sensible woman, at home. There we 
were, five girls, all ' come to see Mr. John Constable's 
paintings,' and as we were about to be shown up into his 
studio, she turned and said, dryly, * Well, young ladies, 
would you like to go up all together to my son, or one at a 
time ? ' I was simpleton enough to pause for a moment, 
in doubt, but we happily decided upon going en masse?'' 

Small events often lead to important results. Ann had 
bought an annual known as the " Minor's Pocket Book," 
in 1798 i and this chanced to rouse her fancy, as we shall 
see by her own words : — 

*'On reading the solutions of enigmas, and other poetic con- 
tributions to which prizes were adjudged, it struck me that, 
without great presumption, I might aim at as much literary dis- 
tinction as these prizes conferred. With lively interest, there- 
fore, I possessed myself of the prescribed conditions, unravelled 
enigma, charade, and rebus, and forwarded the results under 
the signature of * Juvenilia,' as directed, to 55 Gracechurch 



xlvi MEMOIR. 

Street. I little thought that it was bread I thus cast on the 
waters, or rather that it would return as bread after many days. 
I had, indeed, to wait long, and as the interesting season 
approached for the new pocket books to make their appear- 
ance in the window of old Mr. Gibbs the bookseller, frequent 
and anxious were my glances in passing by. At last they 
arrived, and on turning them over on his counter with as much 
indifference as could be assumed, I ascertained that the first 
prize — six pocket books — had been awarded to * Juvenilia. ' " 

The year 1799 may be fairly considered as the period 
when Ann was launched on the sea of literature. For 
some twelve or fourteen years she with Jane was a regu- 
lar contributor, and latterly she had the editorial charge 
for Darton and Harvey, who also became publishers of 
some of their works. 

Finding that plates were used in the *• Pocket Book," 
the Taylors applied for work on the illustrations, and 
were frequently employed in that department. Their 
literary work was at this early period subordinate, and 
only done for their own relaxation. Ann made a visit in 
London when eighteen years old, and found much to 
interest and stimulate her artistic and literary taste. She 
met a young lady, Anna Forbes, who became the dearest 
friend of a lifetime. She met Josiah Conder, who became, 
in a few years, the editor of the *' Wreath." 

Constant work in an overheated room left its mark on 
the Taylors. They paid the penalty of close application, 
and want of active exercise in the open air, in after years. 
Ann happily was exempt ; but none of the others were 
strong or w^ell. When Mr. Taylor finally allowed them 
a run at dinner time, as their mother so strongly urged 
it, the mischief was done. Isaac long felt the effects of 
the close confinement, and Jane was prematurely cut off 
in her prime. 



MEMOIR, xlvii 

In 1800 the pressure of business was so great that 
Mr. Taylor withdrew both Ann and Jane from the house- 
work on alternate weeks, and they spent all their long 
working days in the preparation of the portraits engaged 
by him for " The Theological Magazine," with the ex- 
ception of a day once in a fortnight for their own needle- 
work. Jane thoroughly enjoyed all feminine accomplish- 
ments, and the use of her pen, but there is abundant 
evidence that she was very averse to en^^raving. Isaac 
Taylor has recorded that Jane's " taste for the arts was 
such as to make her excel in the lighter branches ; and 
many of her drawings, still in possession of her family, 
display a true feeling of the beautiful in nature, and a 
peculiar niceness and elegance of execution ; but the 
business of engraving was not altogether suited to her 
talent, or taste, and it was relinquished without regret, 
when other paths of exertion opened before her. In a letter 
of an early date, she says, — * The more I see of myself, 
and of the performances of others, the more I am con- 
vinced that nature never intended me for an artist : . . . 
no one can tell how my feelings are excruciated, when 
I am referred to, or my opinion asked, as an artist. — 
I look at the girls in the milliners' shops, with envy ; 
because their business and their genius are on a level. I 
think it is what I shall come to at last.' " 

There was hope for Jane ; and the envy with which she 
jokingly said she looked at the milliners' girls, soon was 
forgotten, when her talent was discovered. She then 
found her vocation ; and though she for a time contin- 
ued the daily occupation of engraving, the interest and 
inspiration of her new life cheered her daily round of 
uncongenial labor. 

Jane's first appearance in public was with the printing 
of *' The Beggar Boy," in the " Minor's Pocket Book." 



xlviii MEMOIR. 

The pathos, simplicity, and animation of this poem at- 
tracted attention ; and the following note from the pub- 
lishers will show that they saw the value of the sisters' 
work. 

London, ist 6 mo. 1803. 
" Isaac Taylor. 

"Respected Friend, — We have received some pieces of 

poetry from some branches of thy family for the Minor's 

Pocket Book, and we beg that the enclosed trifles may be 

divided among such as are most likely to be pleased with them. 

My principal reason for writing now, is to request that when 

any of their harps be tuned, and their muse in good humor, 

if they could give me some specimens of easy Poetry for 

young children, I would endeavor to make a suitable return 

in cash, or in books. If something in the way of moral 

songs (though not songs), or short tales turned into verse, 

or, — but I need not dictate. What would be most likely to 

please little minds must be well known to every one of those 

who have written such pieces as we have already seen from 

thy family. Such pieces as are short, for little children would 

be preferred. 

" For self and partner, very respectfully, 

*•' Darton and Harvey.*' 

One can fancy the eager and delighted girls round their 
father's desk as he read this kind note. His remark, " I 
do not want my girls to be authors," was seconded by 
their mother, whose watchful care and narrow views made 
her dread any new departure from tlie old established 
customs of her day. Female autliorship was long de- 
cried by all ranks and many intelligent people. Like 
many another fetich, it has been laid by patience and 
tried skill. 

The Taylors were both conscientious and poor. The 
desire to be useful went hand in hand with a very laud- 
able wish to add to the common store. Death had 



MEMOIR. xlix 

several times visited the family; times were hard, and 
mouths were many, in this large family. Mrs. Taylor 
herself, as we have seen, appeared later in the field as an 
author. 

The field of poetry for children was almost an un- 
trodden one when Ann and Jane took up their pens. Dr. 
Watts was ths first in his work for the young. It was 
true that Dr. Aikin, Mrs. Barbauld, and others, had be- 
gun the good work of judicious, practical, and elevating 
writing for the children, but the greater part of these 
writers' work was done in prose. The beautiful '' Prose 
Hymns," of Mrs. Barbauld, fill a very important place for 
the use of little children ; but hymns and verses appeal 
most powerfully to the young mind. There is something 
in every child's nature, responsive and alive to poetry. 
Poetry is the happiest way of communicating great truths 
in a simple way to the young. 

The '* Original Poems," published as the result of Dar- 
ton and Harvey's note, appeared in 1804, and a second 
edition was called for within the year. 

The following extract from the preface will show the 
ideas of the Authors : — 

" If a hearty affection for that interesting little race, the race 
of children, is any recommendation, the writers of the following 
pages are well recommended ; and if to have studied in some 
degree their capacities, habits, and wants, with a wish to adapt 
these simple verses to their real comprehensions and probable 
improvement, — if this has any further claim to the indulgence 
of the public, it is the last and only one they attempt to make. 
The deficiency of the compositions as poetry, is by no means a 
secret to their authors ; but it was thought desirable to abridge 
every poetic freedom and figure, and even every long-syllabled 
word, which might give, perhaps, a false idea to their little 
readers, or at least make a chasm in the chain of conception. 

d 



I MEMOIR, 

Images, which to us are so familiar that we forget their 
imagery, are terrible stumbling-blocks to children, who have 
none but literal ideas." 

A few pieces by another hand were added to the " Orig- 
inal Poems/' but after the second volume appeared the 
authors always stood alone in their work. They received 
;^io for the Poems, and the "Rhymes for the Nursery" 
brought them £20. Not large sums, but to their simple 
ideas full of encouragement for the future. Thousands 
were sold, and translations were made into many lan- 
guages. 

Work was constantly given them ; and among their 
principal prose works, which are not so well known as 
their poetry, were some translations and adaptations from 
the French, -'City Scenes," ''Rural Scenes," ''Bible 
Stories," "Limed Twigs," and many others. Among 
other "jobs " given them was the revision and improve- 
ment of a queer book, " The World turned Topsy-turvey." 
The publisher, Sir Richard Philips, gave them twenty-four 
guineas for adding some poems and working over the old 
ones. 

Ann attempted an imitation of Roscoe's " Butterfly's 
Ball," in her "Wedding among the Flowers ; " and in a 
happy fortnight, by availing herself of the extra hour of 
daylight in the spring of 1808, when Jane was in London, 
she completed her poem ; for which Darton and Harvey 
sent her what she thought the " Munificent gift " of twelve 
guineas. 

"The Hymns for Infant Minds,'' printed in 1807, went 
through forty-five editions before i860. Mrs. Gilbert her- 
self corrected the thirty-fifth in 1844.' During the twenty- 
four years since i860, the sale has continued, and the 
works of the sisters are in no way superseded by more 
modern productions. 



MEMOIR. li 

The preparation of hymns for children's use was a 
peculiarly difficult task. Jane wrote, in a letter of this 
date, '* I think I have some idea of what a child's hymn 
ought to be ; and when I commenced the task, it was 
with the presumptuous determination that none of them 
should fall short of the standard I had formed in my 
mind. In order to this, my method was to shut my eyes, 
and imagine the presence of some pretty little mortal ; 
and then endeavor to catch, as it were, the very language 
it would use on the subject before me. If, in any instan- 
ces, I have succeeded, to this little imaginary being I 
should attribute my success. And I have failed so fre- 
quently, because so frequently I was compelled to say, — 
' Now you may go, my dear, I shall finish the hymn my- 
self.'" 

The Authors, in their preface to this volume, say very 
truly, *' The Divine Songs of Dr. Watts, so beautiful, and 
so justly admired, almost discourage, by their excellence, 
a similar attempt; and lead the way, where it appears 
temerity to follow." 

The want of hymns of this kind has always been felt 
by parents, and the immense sale of this book would seem 
to imply that the Authors' success was all they could have 
hoped or wished. Some years after, Ann's husband, Mr. 
Gilbert, proposed a similar volume for the use of Sun- 
day Schools ; and the sisters prepared it. Ann records, 
shortly after her marriage, the singing of some of these 
*' Hymns for Infant Minds," saying, — 

^^ May i8, 1815. — You would have enjoyed a scene we wit- 
nessed last Monday. The Sunday schools of Sheffield, con- 
taining six thousand children and thirteen hundred teachers, 
assembled in an open space in the outskirts of the town, where 
they formed into a hollow square, sang the " Old Hundredth,*' 
and then marched in procession through the principal streets 



lii MEMOIR, 

to a very large chapel, where a sermon was preached to them. 
Our hymns were sung, and the first, which was the first in the 
* Infant minds,' ^ had a beautiful effect from so many little En- 
glish voices. Large hustings were erected round the pulpit, 
where the principal ladies and gentlemen of the town were 
placed, and in front a gentleman beat time with one of our 
books. Montgomery told the committee in choosing the 
hymns that the middle one — * Among the deepest shades of 
night ' — was the finest hymn of the sort in the English lan- 
guage. The last in the volume concluded. Mr. Gilbert enjoys 
such incidents.'* 



The intense excitement produced by the rumors of a 
French Invasion made a great panic at Colchester, and 
as a measure of safety, the younger children were sent in 
charge of Jane and Isaac to Lavenham, where the unoccu- 
pied house still owned by Mr. Taylor nicely accommo- 
dated them. Mrs. Taylor, in writing to Jane, ** describes 
to her children the rigors of the fast-day — no cloth 
laid; halfa round of toast at breakfast, and no dinner! 
She dwells, too, upon ^ the wonderful sermon ' of her hus- 
band, of which she had chosen the text — David's words 
to Goliath of Gath. ' Goliath, he said, had three signifi- 
cations, Revolution, Captivity, and Passing over. People 
came round him afterwards begging to have it printed.' 
There was plain speaking in those plain days ; for he failed 
not to set forth, * in most affectionate terms,* to the vol- 
unteers present in their uniforms, that many might prob- 
ably ^wallow in their blood.' " 

Ann, being in London visiting, could speak only from 
hearsay of all this, but she shared in the general commo- 
tion. 

In the year 1807, as before said, appeared the '* Rhymes 

1 " I thank the goodness and the grace." 



MEMOIR. liii 

for the Nursery,'* and "Hymns for Infant Minds." During 
this year Ann says, in writing of a visit to London, — 

*' Through the kindness of various friends, 1 gratified my in- 
tense, but humble yearnings to see ' Poetry ' in the shape of 
man or woman. " On this occasion I was introduced to both 
Dr. Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld. A call 1 was privileged to 
make at Newington upon the latter, I cannot forget, nor the 
strange feeling of unearthly expectancy with which, in a small 
parlor, I waited her appearance. At length the door opened, 
— for she did not float in on a cloud or a zephyr, — and a 
small, plain, lively, elderly lady made her appearance ; but it 
was Mrs. Barbauld, aiid that was enough ! During the same 
visit I was introduced to a literary nucleus of a different but 
interesting description, consisting of Daniel Parken, then editor 
of the * Eclectic Review ; ' Theophilus Williams, who succeeded 
him ; and Ignatius Montgomery, a relative of the Poet. Of 
James Montgomery himself, Kirke White, and others, we, 
from time to time, heard a good deal from our now inti- 
mate friend Josiah Conder, whose correspondence, through 
the * monthly parcel,' was made intensely interesting to us by 
the literary intelligence it conveyed." 

Josiah Conder was a frequent visitor at the Taylors', 
and he urged on the sisters the publication of some of 
their more ambitious efforts at poetry. 

In 1809 they collected several pieces and jointly printed 
them, though rather reluctantly, by his advice. He was 
editor as well as publisher. Ann's share of " The Asso- 
ciate Minstrels " was quite large, being eleven poems. 
The book was first called the " Wreath ; '■ but the editor 
probably changed the title, for Jane wished the volume to 
retain its original name, saying, '* Since I have had time 
to think soberly about the ^ Wreath,' — for this must al- 
ways be its title, — I have felt far less anxious about it." 
She had not at this time displayed the vigor her writings 



liv MEMOIR. 

later showed, and the poems, which were none of them 
prepared for publication, are pleasing, simple, expressive 
of feeling occasioned by various circumstances. They 
show her natural tenderness of heart, and the playful 
fancy always natural to her, but not the spirit later de- 
veloped in her work. 

The book, which was dedicated to Montgomery the 
poet, included poems from Ann and Jane, and the elder 
Mr. Conder, the lady afterwards Mrs. Josiah Conder, and 
a friend of the Taylors, Mr. Jacob Strutt. It went to 
a second edition soon, and received the kindly notice 
and commendation of Sir Walter Scott, Maria Edge- 
worth, Southey, James Montgomery, Hayley, and others. 
Scott and Miss Edgeworth greatly liked the poems for 
children. 

Sir Walter Scott, writing to Josiah Conder, says, '* My 
young people are busy with the ' Rhymes for the Nur- 
sery,' and it is perhaps the highest proof of their being 
admirably adapted for their benevolent purpose, that the 
little students have most of them by heart already." 

Miss Edgeworth, in thanking Ann- for something sent 
her, says : ** In a book called * Original Poems for Chil- 
dren,' there is a pretty little poem, ^ The Chatterbox,' 
which one of my little sisters, on hearing your letter, re- 
collected. It is signed Ann T . Perhaps, madam, it 

may be written by you ; and it will give you pleasure to 
hear that it is a favorite with four good talkers of nine, 
six, five, and four years old." 

When Southey received from Josiah Conder the " Asso- 
ciate Minstrels," after some general remarks on the state 
of poetry at that day in England, and the work under his 
notice, adds : " The * Original Poems ' of your friends 
and associates have long been in my children's library, 
and equally favorites with them and with me. There is 



MEMOIR. Iv 

a cast of feeling in them which made me suppose the 
authors to be Quakers, a society with which I am almost, 
yet not wholly in communion. Whoever these ladies are, 
they have well and wisely employed their talents, and I 
am glad to have this opportunity of conveying my thanks 
to them through you, for the good which they are doing, 
and will long continue to do." 

Montgomery writes of it : — *^ Ann is to my mind the 
Queen of the Assembly. She is a poet of a high order, 
the first, unquestionably, among those who write for 
children, and not the last, by hundreds, of those who 
write for men. The ' Maniac's Song ' has not only the 
melancholy of madness, but the inspiration of poetry." 

In 1811 the sisters published the third edition of '' The 
Hymns for Infant Minds," for themselves, with the entire 
profit. They realized ^150 from the first edition, but all 
their little savings were lost by the failure of their pub- 
lisher, and this decided them to publish for themselves, 
which produced very substantial returns. 

In 18 10 Mr. Taylor resigned his pastoral charge in 
Colchester, and the following year received a call to 
Ongar, a pretty village near Epping Forest. 

Fourteen years of workroom life for Ann and Jane was 
at an end. It was decided that they should forever aban- 
don this work, so distasteful to Jane. Great changes were 
in store for them, and the projected school to take the 
place of engraving was talked of, but soon dropped. Ann 
gives a distant friend a picture of Castle House, Ongar, 
her home till her marriage in 181 3. 

" And now, how I wish I could show, instead of describe it 
to you ! but, alas ! Ongar and Barnstaple ! Well, then, I must 
e'en tell you of the pleasant places in which our lines are fallen. 
The house was built upon the site of the ancient castle, in the 



Ivi MEMOIR, 

reign of Queen Elizabeth, who once honored it with a visit 
The hall-door, studded with clump-headed nails an inch in 
diameter, measures 6 feet, by 4 feet 7. The front is covered 
with a vine ; before it is a flower garden ; on the right, as 
pretty a village church among the trees as you ever saw; and 
close on the left the castle trees rising upon a high mount, with 
a moat of deep water encircling it. From every window in 
front we command a rich and beautiful valley, and behind see 
the town just peeping through a line of elms on a terrace beside 
an outer moat. Immediately adjacent is a farm-3^ard, and we 
have not only the usual live stock of such a scene, but a fine 
pair of swans, three cygnets, moorfowl, and solan geese upon 
the moat ; rabbits running wild upon the mount ; a rookery, 
wood doves, and, we are told, nightingales in the castle trees. 
Now, you may fancy, perhaps, that with all this appropriate 
scenery the house must be haunted, or, at least hauntible ; that 
there are nooks and vaults, and niches at every turn ; and that 
sitting, as I now do, a broad moon sliining in at my window, 
and the village clock striking eleven, the next thing must be a 
tall gliding figure patting down the stairs which wind from my 
room door, within the northern turret. But I assure you we 
are the picture of cheerfulness and comfort. The rooms are 
light and pleasant, not in the least ghostly, and fitted up with 
every modern convenience. We have a hall, two parlors, 
kitchen, store-room, &:c., on the ground floor ; three chambers 
above ; and a good workroom, study, two bed-chambers, and a 
light closet on the attic floor. We had to sam the ivy from the 
back parlor window before we could see it, but some still re- 
mains to fringe the mullions ; we have beautiful walks in every 
direction ; and we have placed our garden seat at the end of a 
retired field, surrounded by the moats and the terrace elms 
immediately behind the house.'* 

After some very pleasant visits to friends in Lon- 
don, the girls went home, in February of 18 12, looking 
forward to a new era in their lives. This period was 
of short duration for Ann, who passed but a few months 



MEMOIR. Ivii 

there. Before leaving Colchester, Hannah More's pop- 
ular tale of '-'- Ccelebs in Search of a Wife " was the 
subject of a long letter from Ann to Josiah Conder. He 
was intimate with Daniel Parken, the talented editor 
of the " Eclectic Review," and probably showed him 
this letter ; for Mr. Parken presently asked if Ann would 
undertake an article, and he so far diverged from the 
customary range of the *' Review " as to propose a 
tale of the day by Mrs. West, "Self Control." This 
** Review " numbered several able writers on its list, 
among them, Robert Hall, John Foster, and Olinthus 
Gregory. In its pages the merits of Washington Irving 
were first recognized in England, by an article contrib- 
uted by Isaac Taylor, Jr. Ann says of this, her first 
Review article : " With anxiety, excitement, and delight, 
I undertook it. After writing every morning till about 
weary, I used to take the MS. to a clump of trees a 
little in the valley as seen from my v»nndow, and sitting 
beneath them, read it aloud, for until able to judge from 
the ear I could never form an opinion of what I had writ- 
ten. It appeared in the ' Eclectic ' for June, and, being 
favorably received, I was forthwith continually employed. 
The next review was of Miss Edge worth's Tales, I forget 
which series, sent up in August of the same year." 

Their quiet life was little broken by company; but " a 
visit about this time from Josiah Conder and James 
Montgomery gave great pleasure to us. Few and far 
between had been our glimpses into literary society, and 
in Montgomery, from first admiring his poetry in the 
* Athenaeum,' we had felt tlie most lively interest, — yes, 
and notwithstanding the remark of a young lady belong- 
ing to our higher circle in Colchester, who, hearing from 
me that he was printer at Sheffield, exclaimed, ' La ! how 
terrible.' It was scarcely worth while to remember it 



Iviii MEMOIR. 

for half a century, but how can we get rid of anything 
that chooses to stay ? On the afternoon of their visit, our 
walk with the two poets across the meadows, and up the 
winding lane to Stondon Church, was indeed delightful; 
and yet the only shred of conversation that clings to my 
memory was the simple remark of Montgomery, when I 
mistook distant thunder for artillery (that of Woolwich 
sometimes shook our windows). ' Yes, the artillery of 
Heaven.' " 

In 1812 Isaac Taylor, Jr.'s, health began to fail. His 
occupation in London was abandoned, and it was con- 
sidered absolutely necessary that he should seek a differ- 
ent climate. Ilfracombe, in Devonshire, was chosen for 
its soft climate ; and the family decided that Ann and Jane 
should go with him. So, armed with their writing, and 
he equipped with his materials for miniature-painting and 
engraving, the little party set out. It was sad and anxious 
time. The journey of three hundred miles was made by 
stage, from the celebrated " Castle and Falcon," Inn in 
Aldersgate Street, London, in three days and nights. 

Jane wrote of the place of their six months' stay, after a 
few weeks' study, — 

" Ilfracombe is situated in a deep valley, surrounded on one 
side by barren hills, and on the other by stupendous rocks, 
which skirt the sea. Our lodgings very pleasantly overlook 
the harbor, which affords us constant entertainment. The sea 
is close behind the house \ and is so near a neighbor that, dur- 
ing the last high tides, the waves rose in immense sheets of 
foam, and fell over a high wall opposite our chamber windows : 
it also flowed into the house in front, and kept us close pris- 
oners. Our walks in every direction are so interesting that, 
wh]le the weather permitted, we spent a great part of the day 
abroad. Our rambles among the rocks I enjoy most ; though 
at first they excited sensations of awe and terror, rather than 



MEMOIR, lix 

of pleasure. But now we climb without fear amid a wilderness 
of rocks, where nothing else can be seen, and nothing heard 
but the roar of the distant sea : here the only path is over the 
huge fragments which lie scattered in all directions, and which 
it requires some courage as well as dexterity to scale. Besides 
these, we have several cheerful walks, commanding the sea, 
bounded to the north by a beautiful line of the Welsh moun- 
tains. Their aspects are very various ; at times appearing 
only like faint clouds in the horizon ; but when the weather is 
clear, and the sun shines upon them, they exhibit an exquisite 
variety of light and shade, and delicate coloring, finished, by 
distance, like the finest miniature. From some of the highest 
hills we have distinctly perceived the buildings on the nearer 
part of the coast ; — to the west the wide ocean is before us, 

' Now sparkling with sunbeams, now dimpled with oars, 
Now dark with the fresh-blowing gale.' 

The rocky cliffs of Lundy island add beauty and interest to the 



This new field of study, and the enlarged circle of 
friends made by the sisters, was very desirable in many 
ways. Jane was naturally of a retiring disposition. She 
wrote a few years before this : " How many mortifica- 
tions should we escape, if we were always more solicitous 
to deserve the love of a few valued friends, than to excite 
general admiration ! A proud indifference to the opinion 
of the world is no amiable feeling. But to be independ- 
ent of its smiles, by valuing chiefly the sweets of inward 
tranquillity, is indeed a most desirable state of mind, — 
only to be attained by cultivating the best principles, and 
by seeking approbation from the ///^//^i"/ source." 

She never fully threw off the extreme dififidence with 
which she started on her literary career. She continued to 
address herself to young people and children, because she 
felt herself safe in that humble and less ambitious sphere. 



Ix MEMOIR. 

Jane spent much of her time at Ilfracombe in rambling 
about and gathering impressions for future work. Ann 
and Isaac were fully occupied. Ann wrote for the " Eclec- 
tic " several excellent reviews, — among them that pungent 
one on Hannah More's "Christian Morals." She was 
much stimulated in her new field of work by finding that 
an article by Dr. Gregory was laid aside for her review 
of Miss Edgeworth's book. But the chief event of the 
winter at Ilfracombe, was the arrival of a visitor on a 
peculiar errand. A minister, for a short time resident in 
Essex, but now associated with Dr. Williams as classical 
tutor in Rotherham Theological College, had been so 
impressed with Ann Taylor's writings, and had heard 
from those acquainted with her so much eulogium upon 
her personal merits, that he took the singular step, with- 
out having seen her, of writing to inquire, whether " any 
peremptory reasons existed which might lead him to con- 
clude that a journey, undertaken with the purpose of solicit- 
ing her heart and hand, could not possibly be successful." 

The Rev. Joseph Gilbert first visited Ongar, and took 
the wise step of enlisting the sympathy of Ann's only 
confidant and best friend, her mother, who wrote : *^ But 
as to the man^ it would be vain and fruitless for me to 
say — ' like or dislike him.' Your own observations, your 
own eyes, your own heart, must be your directors. But I 
may say, / like him^ and that he grows upon me most 
rapidly. I soon discovered a vivacity, a gracefulness, 
and even a fascination in his manner, which I thought 
might in due time render him acceptable. Poor fellow ! 
There was no place inside, and he had to travel on the 
roof this bitter weather, and was so absorbed in love and 
learning, that he had left behind his warm travelling cap, 
and, but for your father, would have gone away again 
without his overalls ! " 



MEMOIR, Ixi 

At this time Mr. Gilbert was assistant classical Profes- 
sor at Rotherham College. He was a widower of thirty- 
three, without children. At the death, in a few months, 
of the Principal of Rotherham, he was asked to take the 
entire charge of the college. After several visits on the 
way, the little family party returned to Ongar. Ann had 
received Mr. Gilbert's visit with courtesy, but given him 
no decided answer. She naturally was surprised, and it 
would seem not quite pleased, by his abrupt wooing. 

After ten months they reached Ongar in July, 1813. 
Quite a correspondence had taken place between Mr. 
Gilbert and Ann, and at last he arrived in August at On- 
gar for a decisive answer to his offer. 

Ann Taylor virtually closed her literary career when she 
replied yes to this suitor. It gave her forty years of a 
happy and useful life with one in all ways worthy of re- 
spect and love. Her heart and hands were soon too full 
for any but the practical duties of life. She lived that 
**duty, praise and prayer," she had so well written of in 
her verse. She was thirty-one when she took this impor- 
tant step. She had already received attentions and good 
offers, but this only touched that tender heart. 

Jane was left alone by this event, and the last ten years 
of her life were passed without the constant companion- 
ship of her beloved Ann. She had written before this of 
preparations for work, to a friend, during the Colchester 
life : — 

** My verses have certainly one advantage to boast, beyond 
any that ever before escaped from my pen ; — that of being 
composed in my own study. Whether instigated by the sight 
of your retired literarium, or what, I cannot exactly tell ; but 
certain it is, that one of my first engagements on my return 
home, was to fit up an unoccupied attic, hitherto devoted only 
to household lumber ; this I removed by the most spirited 



Ixii MEMOIR. 

exertions, and supplied its place with all the apparatus neces- 
sary for a poet ; which, you know, is not of a very extensive 
nature, — a few book-shelves, a table for my writing-desk, one 
chair for myself, and another for my muse, is a pretty accurate 
inventory of my furniture. But though my study cannot boast 
the elegance of yours, it possesses one advantage which, as a 
poet, you ought to allow surpasses them all : it commands a 
view of the country, — the only room in the house, except one, 
which is thus favored ; and to me this is invaluable. You may 
now expect me to do wonders. But even if others should derive 
no advantages from this new arrangement, to me, I am sure, 
they will be numerous. For years I have been longing for such 
a luxury ; and never before had wit enough to think of this con- 
venient place : it will add so much to the comfort of my life, 
that I can do nothing but congratulate myself upon the happy 
thought ; and I demand a large share of your poetical sympathy 
on the occasion. Although it is morning, and, I must tell you, 
but little past six, I have half filled this sheet, which capability 
I attribute, chiefly, to the sweet fields that are now smiling in 
vernal beauty before me." 

At Ongar, during her first years, she was hardly settled 
enough to make a study. Isaac's health obliged her to 
again leave home for Ilfracombe and Marazion. 

In October the brother and sister left Ongar, and from 
there she addressed Ann as follows on the occasion of 
her approaching marriage : — 

** Ilfracombe, December i8, 1813. 
" My dear Ann, — I cannot suffer this interesting morning 
to pass without something of a salutation from Ilfracombe ; and 
I dare say this letter will arrive in good company ; but I am sure 
no one will address you who can feel on this occasion either so 
glad, or so sorry as I do. So far as you only are concerned, I 
think I am entirely glad, and feel as perfectly satisfied and happy 
as one can do about untried circumstances. But I cannot forget 



MEMOIR. Ixiii 

that this morning which forms one indissoluble partnership, dis- 
solves another, which we had almost considered so. From the 
early days of * Moll and Bett,' down to these last times, we 
have been more inseparable companions than sisters usually 
are ; and our pursuits and interests have been the same. My 
thoughts of late have often wandered back to those distant 
years, and passed over the varied scenes which chequered our 
childhood and youth: — there is scarcely a recollection, in all 
that long period, in which we are not mutually concerned, and 
equally interested. If this separation had taken place ten 
years ago, we might, by this time, have been in some degree 
estranged from each other; but having passed so large and 
important a portion of life in such intimate union, I think we 
may confidently say it never will be so. For brothers and 
sisters to separate, is the common lot; — for their affection 
and interest to remain unabated is not common ; but I am sure 
it is possible ; and I think the experience we have already had 
proves that we may expect its continuance. Farewell, my dear 
Ann ! and in this emphatical farewell I would comprehend 
all the wishes, the prayers, the love, the joy, and the sorrow, 
which it would be so difficult to express in more words. If 
there is a dash of bitterness in the grief with which I bid you 
farewell, it is only from the recollection that I have not been 
to you the sister I might have been. My feelings have been so 
strongly excited to-day, that I cannot bear more of it ; and must 
leave you to imagine what more I would say on this occasion. 

*' I cannot — no, I cannot realize the busy scene at the Cas- 
tle House, nor fancy you in your bridal appearance. I intend 
to place myself before the view of the house, about the time I 
imagine you are walking down the gravel-walk, and stand there 
while you are at church, and till I think you are coming 
back again. How strange — how sad, that I cannot be with 
you ! What a world is this, that its brightest pleasures are, 
almost invariably, attended with the keenest heart-rendings." 

Ann's wedding day was the 24th December, 18 13. It 
was a bright winter's day ; and Ann wrote a friend she 



Ixiv MEMOIR. 

should ** not soon forget the dearest group in all the world to 
me, left at the garden gate to watch the chaise out of sight. 
I had a last look as we ascenaed the hill. It was one of 
those bitter pains which we sometimes have to pay for 
pleasures of an earthly kind." Janeand Isaac were present 
only in spirit, as his health had driven them away, even 
in the weeks before the wedding. *' It was then che fash- 
ion for ladies to travel in a riding-habit ; a friend had 
undertaken to purchase the cloth for that required by the 
bride at a wholesale warehouse in London, and she was 
not a little gratified to learn, that when the proprietor 
heard for whom the purchase was intended, though he only 
knew Ann Taylor from her works, he begged her accept- 
ance of the four guineas' worth of cloth as a token of 
respect.*' 

The quiet and retirement of the second winter in Devon- 
shire were passed by Jane in writing the tale pubhshed 
later, under the title, " Display." Her brother says : — 

" She commenced it with a specific idea of the qualities she 
designed to exhibit, but with no definite plan for its execution. 
In pursuit of the same general object she followed, every day, 
the suggestion of the moment; and this was, perhaps, the only 
way in which she would ever have written. It was her custom, 
in a solitary ramble among the rocks, for half an hour after 
breakfast, to seek that pitch of excitement without which she 
never took up the pen. This fever of thought was usually ex- 
hausted in two or three hours of writing, after which she 
enjoyed a social walk, and seldom attempted a second effort in 
the day ; for she had now adopted the salutary plan of writing 
in the morning only. To this plan she adhered ever after, 
with only occasional exceptions." 

Mrs. Barbauld, writing to Miss Edge worth in 1816, 
criticises it somewhat. Miss Edgeworth had spoken of it 
to her in a previous letter, saying, — 



MEMOIR, IxV 

" We have just got a little book called * Display/ a tale for 
young people, which we like much. It is written by the 
daughter of a physician, a Miss Jane Taylor, who keeps a 
school near Dublin. I am not acquainted with her. The 
good people in this book, are more to my taste, than those in 
Coelebs, because they are not so meddling. I only wish they 
had not objected to young people going to balls. Before I 
could finish my sentence, in praise of all the good sense and 
excellent writing of this tale, a circle of young and old ladies 
were open-mouthed with the question, — But why object to 
balls.?" 

To this pleasant recommendation from a sister author- 
ess, Mrs. Barbauld replied : — 

** * Display ' we sent for on your recommendation, and are 
much pleased with a good deal of it, but we are entirely of 
your opinion with regard to balls, and indeed there is a great 
deal in her system that I should object to, particularly the 
doctrine, which I think a very pernicious one, that all, th« 
innocent and good as well as the bad, must undergo a myste- 
rious change before they are in a safe state. Emily was very 
good for aught that I could see before her conversion. I 
trembled, as I drew near the close, lest Elizabeth should have 
a fine fortune left her by somebody, and was much pleased with 
the author's good sense in handing her to her post behind the 
counter. By the way, are you not mistaken in the Author ? 
We take it to be th-e production oi Jane Taylor of Ongar^ 
who has written several pieces, both verse and prose, for 
children." 

** Display " went through many editions. TweWe were 
printed in London, before 1835 ; and it was reprinted 
elsewhere several times. The good sense and evident 
sincerity of the writer are everywhere noticeable ; and the 
plain unaffected' Eno^lish, the perfect simplicity of the 
plot and incidents, all disarm criticism. Written with a 



Ixvi MEMOIR, 

desire to inculcate religious and devotional sentiments, it 
is neither sectarian nor bigoted, like too many stories of 
similar style. One cannot help wishing that fate had 
allowed Jane a wider scope for her playful fancy and 
quick observation. '' Display " belongs to a very serious 
class of stories, and is well calculated to awaken thought, 
and assist the young to a better knowledge of their wants 
and shortcomings. 

For Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert, in Ann's own words, 

" Life*s uncertain scope 
In pleasant haze before them lay, 
A land of Love and Hope." 

Their first home was at Rotherham, in Yorkshire. 
It was from the first a very busy life for both, made very 
happy by mutual love and confidence. For a time Ann 
attempted to keep up her writing. She gave Mr. Gilbert 
assistance in his work. After his Greek instruction he 
devoted some time to literary work each day ; and in this 
his wife aided him. She had also engaged to review 
Miss Hamilton's *' Popular Essays," and Miss Edge- 
worth's '' Patronage.'^ 

Her letters to her mother are full of questions as to 
various housekeeping mysteries, showing her desire to 
make an acceptable housekeeper in her new home. She 
had to visit more or less, dining with the new friends 
in Yorkshire frequently. Sheffield, where her husband 
preached, was not distant, — six miles through pleasant 
field and wood walks. There she often visited and, while 
staying with James Montgomery, " witnessed the phenom- 
enon of a poet smoking two pipes after supper." 

She wrote of her new experiences, and the difficulty 
she found in keeping up her literary work, — ** There 
is always ' some bed or some border to mend, or some- 



MEMOIR. Ixvii 

thing to tie or to stick.' I endeavor to get to writing 
about eleven, and write during the morning, more or less, 
as I am able." She says in another letter, — 

" I am persuaded that many here are expecting to find me a 
dawdle. Mr. G. says that people have been continually fishing 
for information on this head, * Is Mrs. Gilbert always writing? ' 
Mr. G. is very desirous that ' Mrs. Gilbert ' should be as well 
known as * Miss Taylor ; ' but he has invested me with other 
characters, and he does not feel, perhaps, that to be well 
known at the expense of these, would be disgrace, rather than 
fame. I hope, by prudence and activity, to be able in time to 
unite the different occupations and characters, so as not 
greatly to injure any ; but if one must suffer, it should certainly 
be the literary.'* 

Mrs. Taylor about this time made her first appearance 
as a writer ; and soon after, with Jane, published the " Cor- 
respondence between a Mother and Daughter at School." 
Her little book on " Maternal Solicitude," was very- 
popular, running through four editions immediately after 
its publication. In October, 1814, Ann's first child, a boy, 
was born : and to remonstrances about her unused pen, she 
would answer, '* Never mind, the dear little child is worth 
volumes of fame." Her heart overflowed with tender- 
ness and a welcome for all the little ones sent her. Her 
days and nights were full of thought and care for them. 
She had eight children born to her. Of this, the first 
born, there are many little anecdotes which run through 
the family letters. It was her one topic for a while. 

She describes the old nurse as talking to the newly 
born baby : " I wish you could have heard her talk to 
him ; it amused me many an hour in bed, for she speaks 
the broadest Yorkshire I have heard, except from a coal 
miner. * Wale, wale, ma little lud, wha d'ye mack sic a 



Ixviii MEMOIR, 

din, an croy soa ? Oh, for shaam ! I mun whip ye, hap- 
pen ye wornt loyke that. Coom, coom, I mun hap ye oop, 
an lig ye int' bed for a soop a botde. Hoosh, hoosh, 
thenna, an' dunna croye soa, ma little piggin, an' dunna 
foight soa, an' tear ya screed.' " 

Meantime Jane at Marazion was busy on <* Display" 
and ''Essays on Rhyme." She was also meeting a new 
set of friends, and enlarging her views of people and life. 
She wrote of the place : *' Marazion is pleasantly situated 
on the margin of Mount's Bay, which forms a fine sweep: 
on the western side lies Penzance, nearly opposite to us, 
at the distance of three miles : — it is a fine ride by the 
sea-side. This morning we have been there : it is a large 
and very pleasant town ; and being so near, we can have 
many of the conveniences it affords. The views here are 
open and agreeable : St. Michael's Mount is a fine object, 
distant about half a mile, and Penzance and the adjacent 
villages very prettily skirt the Bay." 

Here she met with very agreeable people and saw 
much of members of the Established Church and the 
Wesleyan Methodists. Her father's position as an Inde- 
pendent preacher had deprived the family of the free 
social intercourse, so desirable for the young, and really 
indispensable to the formation of a liberal mind and a 
well-balanced literary judgment. Jane Taylor was much 
hampered by the circumstances of her early life. The 
humblest position could not have been more narrowing 
than the isolation to which these children were doomed 
by their father's pastorate. 

The favorable reception accorded " Display," gave Jane 
that confidence in herself so greatly needed. She had 
always before persisted in attributing to Ann all the suc- 
cess of the works published jointly with her. This tale 
was all her own, in plan, execution, and style. She had 



MEMOIR, Ixix 

long been urged to attempt a work of the kind, and this 
showed her ability for such writing. She wisely confined 
herself to a simple narrative, and her modest sketch is 
the groundwork of as unambitious and natural a story 
as one often finds. 

The strictures of some critics on Jane's views were thus 
answered by her, in a letter to a friend : — 

" As to the dancing, I certainly did not think I had erred 
on the strict side ; and I think I have observed the distinction 
you mention, of not objecting to dancing in itself. The children 
at Stokely, you may remember, were all dancing very merrily 
one evening. But, in fact, except with mere children, there is 
no such thing as * select Christian dances.' — Go where you 
will, it is the world who dance ; and the serious who do not. 
... As to what Mr. Leddenhurst says about * dancing through 
the world/ it is a remark I have heard made by those who are 
very far from being puritanical in their manners, or narrow in 
their views ; and I merely understand by it, that a person of a 
contemplative and serious turn of mind, impressed with the 
grand realities of religion, and intent upon remedying, as far as 
possible, the sin and misery of the world, will not be much 
disposed to go * dancing through it.' " 

Being urged by many to continue her writing for the 
general public, Jane, feeling her own judgment was best, 
resumed her work in the " Essays in Rhyme." She pre- 
ferred the form, and really enjoyed versification. She also 
began, in 1816, her contributions, under the well-known 
signature of Q. O., to the "Youth's Magazine : " among 
these sketches are many old favorites, and some justly 
celebrated. " Essays in Rhyme," were finished in 1816, 
and Jane never wrote anything with so much enthusiasm 
and interest as this book. She had received the just 
praise to which her other works entitled her, and her health 
was still fair ; she was then at the height of her maturity, 



Ixx MEMOIR, 

and felt all the pleasure which capacity for work, and the 
appreciation of that power expressed by others, give to 
an earnest writer. 

Her own consciousness of duty well done would have 
sustained her through arduous labor, or unremitting drudg- 
ery like that of the engraving shop, but for continuous 
literary occupation she needed the stimulus of others, the 
expression of the public that she was doing a good and 
necessary work. 

Children were born to Ann in rapid succession, and she 
found little time for poetry ; now and then verses dropped 
from her facile pen ; some hymns for the Sunday-school 
were prepared by Jane and her, during the early years of 
her marriage. The chan2:es of a dissenting minister's 
life took the Gilberts from Rotherham to Hull, in 1817. 

" Eight happy and successful, though truly laborious 
years," says Ann, *' were spent at Hull by Mr. Gilbert, as 
pastor of the Fish St. Chapel. What shall one say of her 
own share of that life ? During those years six children 
were added to the little ones she carried there, and the 
mother was always ready for her part of her husband's 
work, as well as her own household duties. Her corre- 
spondence was very large and full, as all the Taylors were 
scattered and distant from her. Visits to her father and 
mother were rare pleasures to her, and long anticipated by 
her affectionate heart. 

Frequent and long visits from Jane also gladdened her 
heart. Jane had become very serious in her feelings, and 
with her own increasing ill health, and anxiety for her 
father, who had a long illness, her mind was more than 
ever drawn to the contemplation of the future. She was 
naturally cheerful in temperament, but suffering and weak- 
ness naturally somewhat affected her spirits. She wrote 
less and less, under the pressure of pain and weakness. 



MEMOIR. Ixxi 

and confined herself to short letters to friends. She 
continued to the last the interest she had always ex- 
pressed for her friends, and her devotional duties, Sunday- 
school work, and active parish visiting. She calmly 
anticipated the change ; and in January, the last time she 
visited the Meeting House to meet her Sunday-school 
class, she pointed out to a friend the spot where her 
grave was to be. She never attended the Meeting a.ijain, 
as all her symptoms were aggravated by the exposure of 
the wintry day; and she gradually sunk, passing away the 
nth of April, her last articulate words being, '* Well, I 
don't think I shall now see Ann again ; I feel I am dying 
fast," — and Ann on her way to Ongar arrived too late for 
the sad parting. 

One who knew her well described Jane's appearance 
as follows : " In truth, the expression of her face was of 
that kind which is the most difficult to be seized by the 
pencil ; for it was the expression of the finest feelings, 
habitually veiled from observation. Her features were 
delicately formed, and regular, — her stature below the 
middle size ; every movement bespoke the activity of her 
mind ; and a peculiar archness and sprightliness of man- 
ner gave significance and grace to all she did." 

The mind was as alert and active as the body ; wit and 
spirit enlivened her conversation, as well as her writings. 
Her pensive fancy was relieved by playful yet genuine 
feeling. She had a great dread of all literary affectations, 
and often restrained herself for fear of appearing to be a 
blue. Her seriousness of feeling developed more fully 
as the years of youth passed, and never a trifler, she gave 
her best efforts to her religious convictions. 

Jane had so great a desire to escape the imputation of 
hterary affectation that she often would omit gratifying 
herself in matters of fancy. She was eminently practical . 



Ixxii MEMOIR. 

in her ideas. She restrained her wit, frequently, from 
the great earnestness which was the motive power ; the 
under current of feeling was too deep to allow a light 
touch. One traces this in many of her letters : '' Some 
people," she says, "think it a great recommendation to 
be able to write a clever letter ; but if there is any thing 
I dislike to receive, or that I am unambitious of writing, 
it is a clever letter; by which I mean a letter that ex- 
hibits, obviously, an endeavor to be smart and pointed ; 
or, worse still, fine and sentimental." 

Carlyle expresses some tiling of the same feeling where 
he says : *' A resolution to be piquant is the besetting 
sin of innumerable persons of both sexes, and wofully 
mars any use there might otherwise be in their writing or 
speaking." 

Ann, in writing her children after the funeral services 
of Jane, says : " She was in her life kind, tender, active, 
generous, and always anxious to be useful to others. 
She was willing to deny herself of everything, and was 
never so happy as when she was doing a kindness to her 
brothers and sisters. Above all, she feared God from 
her youth, and did not leave that great work till she came 
to die." 

In 1825 Mr. Gilbert removed to Nottingham, called 
thither by a new charge. The only literary work we 
-hear of there, was an address to the women of Notting- 
ham by Ann on the subject of Infidelity. Sympathy with 
her husband's work kept her mind fully occupied, and 
every-day duties left little time for other work. She finally 
became much interested in seeing so much of "' the then 
popular, vulgar infidelity, — the deism and atheism, of 
workshops ^,nd alehouses," as she herself expresses it, 
that she wrote a poem, later enlarged, but never pub- 
lished, "Tfie Prispngr Infidel." 



MEMOIR. Ixxiii 

The year 1830 broke up the old Ongar home, always 
dear to Mrs. Gilbert's heart, by the death of both Mr. and 
Mrs. Taylor. Mrs. Gilbert had already been called to part 
with one of her own little flock, a bitter grief to the 
mother love. During a visit at Skegness she wrote the 
'' Twelve letters on Recovery from Sickness." The MS. 
was published in the following year under the title of 
*' The Convalescent." A serious illness of one of her 
daughters impressed her so deeply, that she answered 
what she felt the needs of one re-entering the world, after 
a long confinement in a sick room. 

Mrs. Gilbert often employed her pen to celebrate local 
events, and commemorate important occasions, for home 
entertainment. The advent of the penny-post, and the 
introduction of steam travelling, received her enthusiastic 
praise; she called the first "the glorious penny post- 
age," and made great use of the cheaper system. She 
welcomed the rapid mode of travelling, dearly as she 
loved all old associations ; and though the old coach made 
a picture she enjoyed, as it passed along the road with 
the horn, and the scarlet coat of the mail-guard, which 
gave a bit of color and life she revelled in. Too many 
weary hours had been passed by her on the way to her 
friends in early years, for her not to rejoice in the new 
force which shortened distance and united families. 

" The enthusiasm of humanity " was always natural to 
Ann. New books, new ideas were always welcomed by 
her. She continued to grow and learn all her days. In 
1849, one new movement which was brought to her no- 
tice, the rights of women, as regarding the Elective Fran- 
chise, elicited a reply from her which contained her views 
on the political duties of women. I extract a few words 
from it. After objecting to women's burdening themselves 
more than they need with outdoor politics, she says: 



Ixxiv MEMOIR, 

" Indoors she may do much, even politically, — that is, 
I should say, it is her duty to instil principles into her 
children, principles affecting all the great questions, — 
Freedom ; Slavery ; Justice ; Humanity ; War ; Mono- 
poly ; Private Judgment ; Voluntaryism, with as many 
more as may be thought of ; and, supposing she do all 
this well, wisely, effectively, and see to it at the same 
time that dinners come secundum artem, that shirts 
have buttons (and buttons shirts), — that everything, in 
short, within the homestead is *done decently and in 
order,' — she will have, to my thinking at least, enough 
to do ! " 

In 1853 came the death of Mr. Gilbert. The devoted 
pastor, loving husband and father, was called, and his 
wife with her daughters made themselves sadly a new 
home. Several years were left her, and she tried to do 
her best to occupy them. She prepared a sketch of her 
husband's life and character, which was published, with 
'* Recollections of his Discourses." 

The breaking up of her home was very painful, and the 
severance of the one dear tie left a great blank. Mr. 
Gilbert was as tender and devoted in his family as he was 
in his ministry. Isaac Taylor writes of him, and his influ- 
ence on the listeners who came to him. After remarking 
on his *' eminent faculty for clear, continuous, and sus- 
tained abstract thought," he says, **but, as a preacher 
and writer, Mr. Gilbert earnestly desired to be useful. 
This desire manifestly was always paramount to the 
ambition to shine or to win popular applause. He 
scorned not to be intelligible to every one. He would 
leave nothing untried that mi^jht avail to bring him close 
home to the convictions of his hearers, — educated and 
uneducated. Far from him was the arrogance that might 
make him content to be wondered at as a philosopher by 



MEMOIR. Ixxv 

a gaping crowd. He loved his hearers, he earnestly 
desired to promote their highest welfare." 

Something of the home life of Ann Gilbert as a minis- 
ter's wife, may interest the reader. Witli a crowded nur- 
sery, poor servants much of the time, all the details of a 
minister's household to care for, one might fancy her liv- 
ing in the midst of disorder, for limited means do not 
make easy housekeeping; but such was not the case. 
One who lived in her household some years wrote these 
recollections of the home : — 

" I can never forget the strong, clear, definite outlines of her 
character, nor the delicate beautiful touches that gave such an 
indescribable attraction to it. There was a firmness and 
straightforwardness in her gait that was essentially indicative 
of her moral strength ; while a clear, distinct, sonorous utter- 
ance impressed one with the order, perspicuity, and justice of 
her ideas. She was a lover of peace and order, and though I 
lived with her for several years, I never saw her temper ruffled, 
or heard her say a harsh or unreasonable word. . . . The 
kitchen, the nursery, the library, the school-room, all felt the 
gentle restraint of her never-varying propriety. 

" Mrs. Gilbert was habitually an early riser. When I knew 
her she rose at six, and was accustomed to do an hour's needle- 
work before the rest of the family were out of bed. She was 
indefatigable with her needle, and her love for keeping things 
in repair must often have been at the great sacrifice of her love 
of reading. Yet I have heard Mr. Gilbert good-humoredly 
remark, * Though Ann seldom indulges herself in looking into 
a book, I don't know how it is, she is always up to everything 
that is going on in the literary world.' 

"Her discipline with her children was gentle, yet very firm; 
and her remonstrances had always a tone of earnest, tender 
entreaty, that it was difiicult to resist, so that force or punish- 
ment was seldom resorted 'to. 

" Her manner was alike easy, affable, and kind to persons of 



Ixxvi MEMOIR, 

every rank, and her sprightly repartees, interspersed through 
all her conversation, constantly took you by surprise, and elic- 
ited a laugh at the most unexpected moment, while she passed 
it by with scarce a smile. Her puns were inimitable, so natu- 
ral, easy, and adroit, that you wondered they had not struck 
you before she uttered them. 

** One of her greatest charms was her charity, — not speaking 
ill of any one, and always hearing, with regret, anything un- 
favorable against any person. She was a true friend, and a 
true woman, not lavish of endearments, but with a wealth of 
love in her heart, ever ready in the service of all with whom 
she had to do. Few women, with so elevated a poetic nature, 
have combined so much practical utilitarianism, and energetic 
self-abnegation ; for a strong and healthy conscientiousness 
regulated every spring of her actions." 

Of her own experiences as a minister's wife she wrote 
a poem, showing that she fully felt the daily and hourly- 
needs of the people, and their demands on the sympathy 
and judgment of the pastor and his wife. She saw 
worth in that lower middle class, the rank and file of Eng- 
lish life, where many have latterly detected only *' Philis- 
tinism." She says — 

....*** the folks in trade,' 
Our pastor knew them, often gathered thence 
Lessons of self-denial, patience, sense ; 
The trust in Providence, the worth of prayer, 
The energy of manly bearing there ; 
Sore struggle 'twixt the dangers of the day, 
A ruined prospect, or a crooked way ! " 

The last years of Ann Gilbert's life were passed in a 
peaceful and serene old age. Many pleasant little jour- 
neys filled the milder season of the year. Her children 
vied with each other in kind attentions, and loving friends 
were not wanting to cheer and soothe her declining days. 



MEMOIR. Ixxvii 

She survived her husband fourteen years, sinking gently 
into rest, after some hours of insensibility, December 20, 
1866. Her six surviving children were around her as she 
passed calmly away. 

The difference between the poetry of Ann and Jane was 
quite marked. Ann loved the business of life, and the 
social circle ; Jane, dreamy, shy and sensitive, sought 
nature with its peace and pathos. Ann's '* My Mother," 
perhaps the most quoted of her poems, will illustrate this. 
Jane, who has written what her latest critic, Mrs. Oliphant, 
calls *' immortal" "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," loved 
the contemplative side of life ; Ann, the dramatic and prac- 
tical. Yet Ann has left lovely bits of natural description, 
— notably the " Michaelmas Daisy; " ''A Pretty Thing," 
and the little nursery song which follows, is as perfect as 
anything of its kind ; as good in its way is " My Mother," 
termed by one eminent writer " the finest lyric of the 
kind in the English language." 

** Dance, little baby, dance up high, 
Never mind, baby — mother is by ; 
Crow and caper, caper and crow, 
There, little baby, there you go ; 
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, 
Backwards and forwards, round and round; 
Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing. 
With the merry gay coral, ding, ding-a-ding ! ding." 

One will remember, in remarking on the perfect sim- 
plicity, the drollery, and the truth of the poems. Gold- 
smith's brilliant repartee to Dr. Johnson, who was amusing 
himself about making animals talk in literature. *' The 
skill," said he, '' consists in making the little fishes talk like 
little fishes." Whereupon, observing Johnson shaking his 
sides with laughter, he smartly added, " Why, Dr. Johnson, 



Ixxviii MEMOIR, 

this is not so easy as you seem to think, for if you were 
to make little fishes talk, they would talk like WHALES." 
And so would many other writers besides old Sam John- 
son. Goldsmith hit the keynote of the whole subject of 
writing for children when he said this. There are few who 
understand writing for children. It requires a clear and 
eminently practical mind to divest itself of the worldly, 
in the way of addressing the undeveloped mind. Old 
Fuller long ago wrote truly, " Every boy can teach a man, 
whereas he must be a matt who can teach a boy. It is 
easy to inform them who are able to understand, but it 
must be a masterpiece of integrity and discretion to de- 
scend to the capacity of children." A worthy saying, and 
to be well noted by writers for the young. To "descend " 
well is a great art. Miss Yonge, in her paper on children's 
literature, speaks of ^* the astonishing simplicity without 
puerility, the pathos and arch drollery, of the secular 
poems of the Taylors." 

Dr. Arnold of Rugby said, in one of his sermons, " The 
knowledge and love of Christ can nowhere be more readily 
gained by young children, than from the hymns of these 
most admirable women.'' 

Archbishop Whately, also, bears testimony to the value 
of the Taylor sisters' work, when he- says, in '' Essays 
on Christian Faith," " A well-known little book, entitled 
'Hymns for Infant Minds,' contains, Nos. 14, 15, a 
better practical description of Christian humility, and its 
opposite, than I ever met with in so small a compass. 
Though very intelligible and touching to a mere child, a 
man of the most mature understanding, if not quite des- 
titute of the virtue in question, may be the wiser and 
better for it." The poems here referred to are those en- 
titled, " How to Find Out Pride," and '' How to Cure 
Pride ; " and were written by Ann Taylor. 



MEMOIR, Ixxix 

These poems exhibit a searching analysis of motive, 
common to both the sisters' work. After some close in- 
quiries, the poem says : — 

" Put all these questions to your heart, 
And make it act an honest part ; 
And when they 've each been fairly tried, 
I think you '11 own that you have pride." 

On Ann's last birthday, Jan. 30, 1866, at the age of 
eighty- four, she wrote in her diary, " Oh, what a length of 
mercy ! " She addressed her only remaining brother in 
that year, as follows ; showing that, always cheerful and try- 
ing to interest herself in those around her, her thoughts 
were busy, her mind was ready for the future life. 

" I breathed a sigh that spake of tears 
At thought of life's departing years ! 
Well ! Speed they must, but oh, to stand 
Equipped for that near — distant land 1 
My soul stands trembling but to think 
Of that unseen, that awful brink. 
And for herself, and all, she prays, — 
* Lord search our thoughts, and try our ways, 
And see in that vain world within 
Or error's blight, or hidden sin. ' " 



D I S P LAY. 



CHAPTER I. 

" I WISH we were not going this evening," said Eliz- 
abeth; ''they say Mrs. Fellows is so clever, and so 
satirical, that I shall be afraid of speaking a word.'* 

** Dear now, I am glad we are going," repKed Emily, 
'* we have heard so much of Mrs. Fellows ; and I had 
not thought about being afraid of her.'* 

" I trust of all things they will not ask us to play. I 
would not play before Mrs. Fellows for all the world," 
added Elizabeth. 

" I had rather not, certainly," said Emily ; " and 
yet I do not think I should mind it so very much." 

'' How I envy you having so much courage," said 
Elizabeth ; " I am such a silly, timid creature ! " 

It was true that the dispositions of these young 
people differed essentially : they belonged to opposite 
classes of character ; which — to borrow terms used 
long ago in a different sense, in scholastic controversy 
— might be called Nominalists and Realists. 

Emily was a Realist, Whatever she did, said, or 
looked, was in earnest : she possessed the grace of 
SIMPLICITY, — a simplicity which appeared alike in her 
virtues and her faults. It was neither from insensibility 
nor self-conceit that she thought of her introduction to 
this formidable lady with so much composure. Modest 
people are not the soonest frightened. " I wonder 

I 



2 DISPLA V, 

what they will think of me?^^ is not the inquiry of 
humility, but of vanity. 

Now this inquiry Elizabeth was making perpetually. 
To speak, to move, to weep, or to smile, were with her 
but so many manoeuvres, which she was practising for 
e^ecf, and to attract attention. The prospect, the pict- 
ure, or the poem, which Emily admired with all her 
heart, Elizabeth admired with all her eloquence^ — too 
intent upon exhibiting her taste or sensibility, to be 
truly the subject of either. 

It was this disposition to display, that made her 
anxious about the expected yisit Emily was going 
that she might see Mrs. Fellows ; Elizabeth, that Mrs. 
Fellows might see her. 

From the conference with her friend, Elizabeth went 
directly to her dressing-room. She would have given 
away half her ornaments to know whether Mrs. Fel- 
lows wore ornaments. '^ As she is a literary lady, I 
dare say she despises dress," thought Elizabeth, as she 
looked at her pearl bracelets ; and she clasped and 
unclasped them several times ; but at last put them on 
in a hurry, because there was no time left to deliberate. 

Elizabeth and Emily went together to their friend's 
house. Emily happened to take off her glove in the 
hall. "You have no bracelets on!" said Elizabeth. 
This was a comparison she could not bear : Mrs. Fel- 
lows would think her a mere doll. *^Wait one mo- 
ment," said she ; but in snatching one of the bracelets 
from her arm it broke ; and the pearls wandered 
deliberately to every corner of the hall. '^ Oh, your 
beautiful pearls ! " said Emily. But just as she and the 
footman were beginning the search, a rap, long and 
loud, announced the arrival of other company. It was 
Mrs. Fellows herself. " Oh, never mind, never mind," 
cried Elizabeth, shocked at the idea of being caught 
by a learned lady in the act of collecting beads ; 
" Thomas will look for them." And, drawing on her 



DISPLA V. 3 

glove still more eagerly than she had taken it off, she 
hurried much discomposed to the drawing-room. 

The first glance at Mrs. Fellows when she made her 
appearance, convinced Elizabeth that this literary lady 
was no despiser of dress ; and she now regretted the 
misfortune that had befallen her bracelet. 

Mrs. Fellows was reputed a universal genius : be- 
sides excelling all the masters in all the usual accom- 
plishments, she was a botanist, and a chemist, and an 
anatomist. She had written sonnets, and a novel, and 
a tragedy ; and appeared — at least among the noblesse 
of an obscure country town — a prodigy of learning 
and genius. 

Nothing could be more ill founded than Elizabeth's 
expectation of attracting the attention of this gifted 
lady. Satisfied with being herself the object of at- 
tention, and engrossed by the display of her own 
accompUshments, she had little leisure or inclination 
to observe those of others. She was presently engaged 
in conversation with two or three gentlemen ; and the 
whole evening would have passed without Ehzabeth's 
being able to ascertain whether she had once attracted 
her notice, if she had not happened to hear her say — 
after catching her eye for a moment — '^ about the 
height of that young lady." 

How much anxiety and vexation do they escape, 
who mix in society with a simple, unambitious tem- 
per ! 

The business which brought Mrs. Fellows from town, 
was to dispose of an estate in this neighborhood to a 
relation. 

'' I understand we shall have a great acquisition in 
this new family," observed a lady. 

"Very much so, I assure you," replied Mrs. Fel- 
lows ; " my cousin is a very sensible, excellent, clever, 
worthy man ; and educates his family in a vastly 
superior manner." 



4 DISPLA K 

" Any of the young gentlemen grown up ? " inquired 
a matron. 

" Oh, no ; the eldest I think is but ten years old." 

" Only ten years old ! " said three young ladies in a 
breath. 

" There is a tutor, and a governess, I suppose," re- 
sumed the lady. 

"No tutor ; my cousin at present superintends their 
education entirely himself. Mrs. Leddenhurst has a 
governess, I believe ; but really I can give you very 
little information about them," said she ; " I have 
scarcely seen anything of them of late ; indeed, my 
cousin and his wife have some pecuHarities, which ren- 
der them not altogether so entirely agreeable as one 
could wish." And here she changed the conversation ; 
leaving the company in a state of suspense about these 
" pecuHarities : " but it was not insupportable suspense, 
because the family was expected in six weeks ; " and 

then we shall know all about it," thought Mrs. P , 

and Mrs. M , and the three Miss C *s, and old 

Mrs. G , and young Mrs. G , and Dr. W . 

At length it was requested that Mrs. Fellows would 
play. The lively terms in which Elizabeth expressed 
her pleasure at this proposal were lost amid the general 
din of solicitation. 

^* What taste ! what execution ! " she exclaimed re- 
peatedly, during the performance. 

When it was over, Mrs. Fellows insisted that some 
of the company should take her place. 

Elizabeth advanced a step or two within the line of 
observation. 

** Miss Palmer, my dear," said the lady of the house, 
turning towards her : but in the meantime another lady 
had been prevailed upon. 

" What an escape for you ! " whispered Emily. 

" Yes, indeed," replied Elizabeth faintly, " what an 
escape ! " 



DISPLA V. 5 

When the party broke up, Elizabeth, as she wished 
her friend Emily good night, added in a whisper, " How 
much I am disappointed in Mrs. Fellows ! " 

Elizabeth and Emily were friends, as it often hap- 
pens, rather from accident than congeniality. They 
had been playfellows from their infancy ; and when they 
ceased to play, they had continued to associate. 

Emily was affectionate, and she loved Elizabeth sin- 
cerely. EUzabeth felt as much regard for Emily as for 
any one she knew : but vanity chills the heart ; and in 
proportion as she became conscious of the slightness 
of her affection, she grew lavish in her professions of it. 
Bat notwithstanding the difference in their tastes and 
dispositions, there were some respects in which they 
suited each other. Elizabeth could by no means have 
tolerated a friend, who had been taller, or fairer, or 
considered more clever than herself. Perhaps she was 
not aware how much of her regard for Emily, and the 
pleasure she felt in her society, depended upon her own 
acknowledged superiority in these respects. 

Elizabeth was now more than nineteen years old ; 
Emily nearly a year younger ; and most people thought 
^' Elizabeth Palmer much handsomer than Emily Grey.'' 
They had always lived among people who allowed their 
full value to external advantages. Elizabeth's supe- 
riority to her friend was a circumstance entirely taken 
for granted between them ; and the deference natur- 
ally claimed by the one was peaceably yielded by the 
other. 

As for Emily, a companion who would talk, and 
leave her to think and feel as she pleased, suited her 
better than one who had been disposed to interfere 
with her thoughts and feelings. Yet she occasion- 
ally sighed for something more like her own idea of 
friendship than she had ever found in associating with 
Elizabeth. 



DISPLA V. 



CHAPTER II. 



One morning Elizabeth and several others called 
upon Emily. There was now an opportunity, they 
said, of going over the house and grounds at Stokely, 
as it was open to the workmen ; and a great many 
people had been to see it. 

It was a pleasant walk from the town : the house 
stood on a rising ground, and, embosomed in fine trees, 
was a picturesque object in all directions. 

** What a pity that such a pretty place should be 
shut up ! " had been said year after year by many a 
traveller. But now everything indicated that inhabit- 
ants were expected. 

" Let us go over the house first," said several of the 
party, as they sprang nimbly up the steps to the hall 
door. 

" You must take care of the paint, young ladies," 
said the workmen, as they flocked into the hall. 

While they steered their way among work-tables and 
scaffolding, and over heaps of shavings and sawdust, 
and passed from one apartment to another, they ex- 
pressed their opinions in various tones and terms of 
admiration. " What a charming room f/n's is ! " and 
'^ what a delightful room t/iis will be ! " 

'^ What a sweet place this would be for a ball-room ! " 
said one, bounding in upon a fine smooth floor, and 
humming a few notes of a country dance. 

'^ If I were Mrs. Leddenhurst, I would have this for 
my dressing-room, or study, or something," said an- 
other, as they passed on. 

'' This is exactly such a kind of a room as I should 
like for myself," cried a third. ^' I wonder what Ms is 
to be ? I wish there was somebody to tell one what 
the rooms are to be," said a fourth. '' I wonder 



D IS PL A V. 7 

whether I shall ever live in such a nice house as this ! " 
exclaimed a little girl. " Silly child ! " said her sister, 
who was old enough not to wonder aloud. 

They next attempted a door which they could not 
open. " That room is locked up, and I can't part with 
the key upon no account," said a person who seemed 
to be a superintendent. 

" Dear, I wonder what there can be so particularly 
curious within," said Elizabeth, looking through the 
key-hole. 

" Nothing particularly curious within ; they are my 
books, ladies, which I shall be very happy to show you 
when they are in better order," said a gentleman who 
at that instant appeared on the staircase, and passed 
on. This was said with a graceful bow, and a very 
good-natured smile. They were all silent in a mo- 
ment ; and stood coloring, and looking silly at each 
other. For when a party of* young ladies are rambling 
at large over an empty house, it is highly probable that 
some silly and impertinent things will be said ; and 
each was now trying to recollect what she happened to 
be saying when the stranger appeared. Elizabeth re- 
membered her speech very distinctly. 

" It must be Mr. Leddenhurst himself, I suppose," 
said she, in a low voice. 

" Oh, you may depend upon that, for you know he 
said my books," replied one of her companions. 

" I thought he was to go away with Mrs. Fellows ; I 
had no idea he was here now," continued Elizabeth, in 
a vexed whisper. 

'' Don't you wish you had not been looking through 
the key-hole? " said another of her friends. 

" Oh, I don't believe he saw that ; I am certain he 
could not possibly see that." said Elizabeth, sharply. 

" Well," said Emily, '' I believe we have been all 
over the house now." So the party returned quietly 
home. 



8 D ISP LA K 

The trees of Stokely were bright with the tints of 
autumn, before it was in complete readiness for its new 
inhabitants. 

One fine evening in October, a travelling carriage, 
covered with dust, was seen driving through the town ; 
and it was observed to take the road leading to Stokely 
Park. The travellers were fatigued with their journey ; 
for they had come from a great distance. 

^* Where are we come to now?" said a little girl, in 
a sleepy voice, who was roused by their stopping at a 
turnpike. 

'* Just coming into Broadisham," said her father ; 
" and now, children, in a i^^N minutes we shall get a 
sight of Stokely." 

*' Of Stokely ! and is this Broadisham?" They were 
all aUve in an instant, and looked out eagerly from one 
side of the way to the other. " Ladies' Boot and Shoe 
Warehouse ; Hodson, Dyer, and Hodson ; Eve's Fancy 
Dress and Millinery Rooms ; Ladies' School ; Phoenix 
Fire-office ; Pryke, Haberdasher," read little Lucy, as 
they drove through the town. 

" What a handsome bridge we are coming to now ! " 
said Richard. "And there is Stokely," said Mr. Led- 
denhurst ; "those dark trees just in the sunset." 

The children now expected to stop every moment ; 
but the road had many a tiresome sweep to make still. 
At length it became shaded by a row of graceful elms ; 
and a fir-grove with park-paling bespoke their near ap- 
proach. And now the gate flew open, and they drove 
straight up the avenue. 

" What a different looking place it is to what I ex- 
pected ! " said Richard. 

" Yes," said Lucy, " but a great deal prettier." 

While the father listened to their eager observations, 
Mrs. Leddenhurst and her friend beside her sat in si- 
lence. It was not the extent of the estate, nor the 
beauty of the scenery, but life and its vicissitudes, that 



D IS PL A Y. 9 

occupied her thoughts as she drove up to her new 
residence. 

In a short time Mr. and Mrs. Leddenliurst had been 
visited by most of their neighbors. 

Being people of good sense and discernment, they 
were not particularly gratined by these specimens of 
their new society. Nevertheless, their guests were re- 
ceived with much courtesy and kindness ; for their 
good sense was graced with good-breeding, and their 
discernment was softened by benevolence. 

It was generally agreed that Mr. and Mrs. Ledden- 
hurst were very agreeable people ; and no one had de- 
tected the peculiarities which had been hinted at. They 
were well dressed and well bred ; they wondered what 
Mrs. Fellows could mean. Emily was the first to un- 
ravel the mystery. 

On the morning that she and her father called. Miss 
Weston — of whom nobody could determine whether 
she was a friend or the governess — was inquiring if 
there were any one in the town who took in needle- 
work. Emily said there was a young woman who used 
to work very neatly, but she remembered hearing of 
her being ill, and did not know whether she could un- 
dertake it at present. '^ But I will inquire about it 
immediately," said she. Miss Weston said she intended 
to be in the town the next morning ; and that if she 
pleased they would go together. 

Emily was glad of this proposal ; for there was some- 
thing in Miss Weston — the expression of her counte- 
nance, and the sweetness of her manner — that attracted 
her attention. There was other company in the room, 
and they did not sit near enough to converse together ; 
but she could not help looking at her continually ; and 
their eyes met so often that at last Emily felt quite 
ashamed. 

Miss Weston called the next day at the time ap- 
pointed. They had to go a httle way out of the town ; 



lO DISPLAY, 

and during their walk she engaged in such agreeable 
conversation that Emily could not help wishing she 
might have Miss Weston for a friend. 

When they arrived at Eleanor Jones's, her mother 
opened the door. " Does your daughter take in plain 
work, Mrs. Jones?" said Emily. 

" Yes, Miss ; that 's to say, she used to do," said the 
widow Jones ; " but my poor child is so ill, ladies ! " 

" Mother," said a feeble voice from within, " ask the 
ladies to please to walk in." 

" Yes, let us go in," said Miss Weston. 

They found Eleanor Jones sitting by the fire in a tall 
arm-chair. She looked extremely weak and ill, but her 
cheeks were flushed at the entrance of strangers. She 
spoke with difficulty. 

" If it is not much in a hurry, ladies, I think I could 
undertake a little job, " said she, coughing. 

" I am afraid it would fatigue you too much," said 
Miss Weston ; " you appear very unwell. Has your 
daughter had advice, Mrs. Jones? " 

" The doctor as 'tends the parish, ma'am, he sent 
her some drops in the spring ; but he has n't been up 
here o' some time now — only the young gentleman ; 
and he says the cough 's of no consequence ; but dear 
me ! she coughs sadly o 'nights." 

"Can she take any nourishing things?" said Miss 
Weston. 

*' Oh, she 's no liking at all to her meat, ma'am," said 
the mother ; " she takes nothing scarce but fruit, and 
such like, and now the fruit is just over." 

*^Do you think you should like some grapes?" said 
Miss Weston. 

" Yes, I should like some grapes very much, I think," 
said Eleanor Jones ; " but my wants are very few now, 
and I know that all the doctors in the world could do 
me no good ; my time here is very short." 

'' Oh, you will get better soon, I hope," said Emily ; 
" you must not be so lowspirited." 



D IS PL A V. 1 1 

"I am not lowspirited," she replied; ^^ I am very 
happy, and if it was not for my poor mother I should 
not have a wish or a want." 

Emily looked rather puzzled at this, but Miss Weston 
seemed to understand her. There was a Bible open 
upon the table ; and Miss Weston, laying her hand 
upon it, said, ^^ It is fAz's, I hope, that makes you happy ; 
whether we are sick or well, there is no real happiness 
but what is to be found here." 

At this the invalid looked up with great animation, 
saying, ^' O ma'am, I am glad to hear you say so ; I 
am rejoiced to think you know that. Yes, yes, the 
Bible made me happy when I was well ; and now that I 
am ill and dying, it makes me still happier." 

Emily listened in silence to the conversation which 
now commenced ; and she was surprised and affected 
at what she heard. She had often read in the news- 
paper, and heard among her acquaintance, about " bear- 
ing a long affliction with Christian fortitude;" and 
about ^^ resignation to the will of Heaven;" but she 
now heard sentiments expressed which were entirely 
new to her. She was surprised that Miss Weston and 
this poor girl, although entire strangers, and in very 
different circumstances, seemed so completely to un- 
derstand each other, and to think and feel so much 
alike upon the subjects about which they were convers- 
ing. 

"You have talked long enough now," said Miss 
Weston at length, in a kind voice ; and she took 
leave, saying she would call again to see her in a 
few days. 

" Miss Weston, I have a favor to ask you," said 
Emily, after they had walked a little way in silence. 

"What is that?" 

" I scarcely know what I mean, exactly," said she, 
" but I did not understand several things poor Eleanor 
Jones said just now ; indeed, I am afraid my religion 



1 2 DISPLA Y. 

must be very different from hers; would you be so 
good as to explain to me — '^ 

'' My dear/' said Miss Weston, " you could not have 
asked anything that would give half so much pleasure/' 

Her countenance, as she said this, beamed with 
benevolence ; and there was something so kind and 
encouraging in the manner of her speaking that it 
brought the tears into Emily's eyes. 

^^ If I were not such a stranger to you — " said she. 

^' We will be strangers no longer/" interrupted Miss 
Weston ; " let us be friends, and talk to each other 
without reserve ; and there is no subject of so much 
importance, none that can afford such a rational and 
interesting topic for conversation." 

^^And yet," said Emily, '' I have never been in the 
habit of conversing upon it, nor of thinking about it 
much ; but I am certain your religion must be very 
different." 

''' You must not call it my religion," said Miss Wes- 
ton, smihng ; " there is, there can be, but one true re- 
ligion, which is that the Bible teaches ; and they who 
most clearly understand, and most consistently practise 
it, are the wisest and happiest people in the world." 

" I read the Bible on Sundays," said Emily, " and 
I hope I have always done my duty." 

" That is saying a great deal," observed Miss Weston. 

'' But I never knew the Almighty required anything 
besides," continued Emily. 

'^Certainly he. requires nothing more than that we 
should do our duty," repHed Miss Weston ; " but that 
is a very comprehensive phrase ; are you sure you en- 
tirely understand it? " 

" Not quite sure," said Emily. 

'' You have read the Bible," continued Miss Wes- 
ton, '' and so have many people ; who yet, from pride, 
prejudice, or indifference, never appear to have under- 
stood its meaning. Let me advise you now to read 



DISPLAY. 13 

the New Testament with great attention and serious- 
ness ; and, my dear, it must be with humility : it is 
God's word, His own message to mankind ; and it be- 
comes us to receive it humbly as His creatures. Did 
you ever make it a subject of earnest prayer, that God 
would teach you to understand the Scriptures ? With- 
out this, there is the greatest danger of making some 
important mistake about them ; for it is in this way that 
He directs us to study His word ; and in which alone 
He promises us instruction. And when you have read 
it in this spirit," continued she, '' you will be better 
able to judge whether there is not something in the 
Christian religion beyond the observance of outward 
forms and duties ; whether there be any tendency in 
these alone to produce such effects at the near approach 
of death as you have just witnessed ; the same willing- 
ness lo resign Hfe, the same peaceful serenity at the 
thought of death, and the same humble joy in the pros- 
pect of a heaven of holiness." 

Emily hstened with interest as her friend proceeded : 
they parted at the turning of the road, having agreed 
to renew the conversation in their future visits to Elea- 
nor's cottage. She walked home musing on what had 
passed ; her mind was affected and elevated ; a new 
\yorld seemed to have opened to her view, notwith- 
standing her very indistinct ideas as to its nature and 
reality. 

Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst, as well as their friend, 
were intelligent Christians : they knew religion to be 
the most important of all concerns, and they uniformly 
acted as though they believed it. They felt the disad- 
vantage of coming to reside in a neighborhood where 
they had reason to fear its true nature was Httle under- 
stood by those with whom they would be expected to 
associate ; but the hope of being useful reconciled them 
to the circumstance. There was a general consterna- 
tion when it was discovered that the new family at 



14 DTSPLA V. 

Stokely were, as f/iey called them, " quite Methodists : ** 
all marvelled, many murmured, and some mocked. 
There were a few poor and despised people in this 
town who had generally borne that or similar names : 
but then, as a lady observed, ^' It was all very well for 
that sort of people ; but what could induce such a 
family as the Leddenhursts to make themselves so re- 
markable, was to her a complete mystery : though, to 
be sure," said she, ^* people of property may do any- 
thing." 

Miss Weston was both " a friend and the governess." 
A friendship had subsisted between her and Mrs. 
Leddenhurst from their early youth, which time had 
strengthened and matured ; but it was only of late that 
she had become an inmate in her family. Though it 
was perceptible to none but accurate observers of feel- 
ings and faces. Miss Weston was a sufferer. It is easy 
to wear a pensive smile, but hers was a smile of cheer- 
fulness ; and she was generally spoken of as being 
" remarkably cheerful." 

As to the cause of her sorrow, only a conjecture can 
be formed ; because Mrs. Leddenhurst, who was the 
only person in whom she had confided, never betrayed 
her confidence. Among the numerous sources of hu- 
man woe, the reader may fix upon that which to her 
may appear most difficult to endure with fortitude and 
resignation. One may conclude she had lost her friend ; 
another her heart ; and a third, her fortune ; but per- 
haps, after all, it was something very different from any 
of these. 

Miss Weston's idea of resignatio7i was not as one 
may see it in the print shops, — a tall figure, weeping 
over an urn in the middle of a wood ; it was, in her 
opinion, an active, cheerful, and social principle. It 
was not, indeed, without an effort, that she resisted her 
inclination to seek relief in rumination and seclusion ; 
but strength of mind, that is, strength of principle, 



DISPLAY. 15 

prevailed. Without waiting to confer with her inclina- 
tions, she wrote to her friend Mrs. Leddenhurst, offer- 
ing to assist her in the education of her little girls. 

'' You know," said she, '"' how much I love children, 
and that of all children none are so dear to me as 
yours. I am quite in earnest in saying that I will come 
and be the governess for whom you are inquiring. Do 
not raise needless scruples ; some employment, that 
will engage both my time and attention, is essential to 
me just now ; and I think I should engage in the work 
of education with an interest that would enable my 
mind to recover its self-possession. Indeed, I am im- 
patient to forsake this retirement, — sweet and soothing 
as it is. Let me come, dear Caroline, and exchange 
these dangerous indulgences for the more wholesome 
pleasures of social intercourse and useful occupation." 

Mrs. Leddenhurst, who understood enough of the 
human heart, and of the character and feelings of her 
friend, to know that her resolution was as ^vise as it was 
courageous, gladly welcomed her to the bosom of her 
family ; where she soon learned to " smile at grief," 
without sitting '^ on a monument." 



CHAPTER in. 

Of all the young people who had been introduced 
to the Leddenhursts, there was not one whose appear- 
ance pleased them so much as Emily's. They observed 
that in some important respects her education had been 
defective ; but she seemed amiable, modest, and un- 
affected ; and possessed of good sense and a strong 
desire of improvement, which greatly encouraged them 
in their wishes to serve her. 

They perceived that Elizabeth was a less hopeful 



1 6 DISPLAY. 

subject than her companion ; but this did not make 
them less willing to attempt her improvement ; for they 
were not accustomed to shrink from a duty because it 
was unpleasant, nor to despair of one that was difficult. 
They were both invited to join the family circle at 
Stokely as often as they felt disposed. They were not 
backward to accept this invitation ; and an early even- 
ing was fixed upon to pay their first friendly visit. 

Elizabeth and Emily set off on this occasion with 
high expectations of gratification and enjoyment. Hith- 
erto they had only seen them with other company ; 
" but now," thought Emily, " we shall be alone, and 
be able to enjoy their conversation." " Now," thought 
Elizabeth, ''we shall be alone, and they must take no- 
tice of mey 

On their way, they met one of the servants from 
Stokely, with a basket of grapes. 

" There goes a present for somebody : who can it 
be for, I wonder," said Elizabeth ; '' the Tomkinses, — 
or the Davisons, perhaps." 

" No, no," said Emily ; " I can easily guess who it is 
for, — poor Eleanor Jones, who is so ill. I know they 
send her fruit or jellies every day." 

" Well, very likely," replied Elizabeth ; " for I heard, 
— but really I can scarcely believe it, Mr. Leddenhurst 
looks such a pleasant, different kind of a man, — they 
say, however, that he and Mrs. Leddenhurst were there 
the other day, and had such a strange conversation ! 
Oh, I cannot remember half the extraordinary things 
I heard they said to her." 

'' I know they have been to see her," said Emily, 
" and that she was very much pleased with their con- 
versation ; I do not think she thought it strange." 

" Well, I sincerely hope we shall have no such gloomy, 
stupid doings to-night ! " exclaimed Elizabeth. 

" Elizabeth," said Emily, " I have heard and thought 
more about religion since I conversed with Miss Wes- 



DISPLA Y. 1 7 

ton than I ever did before ; and I really think nothing 
is so likely to prevent one from being gloomy and stu- 
pid. Besides, do not the Leddenhursts appear re- 
markably pleasant and cheerful? " 

" Yes, in company ; people, you know, must be 
agreeable in company : but I have heard those over- 
religious kind of. folks are miserably dull when they 
are alone." 

" Well, we shall see," said Emily. 

When they reached Stokely, and entered the room, 
they found Miss Weston playing a lively tune, to which 
the children were dancing by the light of the fire. 
They were cordially welcomed; and Emily felt very 
happy as the circle formed, and she took her seat by 
the side of Miss Weston. She looked round, and saw 
none but cheerful faces ; it did not appear to be that 
kind of cheerfulness which is made at a moment's 
warning by the rap at the door ; they looked as though 
they had been cheerful and happy all day long. 

Elizabeth appeared this evening dressed with taste, 
but rather over-dressed for the occasion. And this did 
not pass unobserved ; for in the simple action of walk- 
ing from the door to her chair there was a manner that 
asked for observation ; that is, it was not a simple action. 

Mr. Leddenhurst was looking over a review. " Po- 
etry ! poetry in abundance for you, ladies," said he, "if 
you like it." 

" Oh, indeed, I am passionately fond of poetry^," 
said Elizabeth. 

" Passionately fond, ' are you ? Here is an article 
then, that, perhaps, you will do us the favor to read." 

Elizabeth readily comphed, for she was fond of read- 
ing aloud. 

" We select the following passage," said the inju- 
dicious critic, " for the sake of three lines which we 
are persuaded no reader of sensibility will peruse with- 
out tears." 



1 8 DISPLAY. 

" No reader of sensibility ! " thought Elizabeth ; but 
how should she discover for certain which they were in 
that long quotation? To cry at the wrong place, she 
justly calculated, would be a worse mistake than not 
crying at the right ; but, fortunately, as she approached 
the conclusion, the lines in question caught her eye, 
considerately printed in Italics. She read them with 
great pathos ; and, as she read, tears — two undeniable 
tears — rolled deliberately down her cheeks. Having 
succeeded in this nice hydraulic experiment, she looked 
at Emily, and observed with some satisfaction that there 
was no trace of tears on her cheeks ; but glancing round 
at the rest of the company, she felt rather disconcerted 
to see how perfectly composed everybody was looking. 
"Are they not extremely affecting?" said she, appeal- 
ing to Mrs. Leddenhurst. 

" Really, I can scarcely tell," said Mrs. Leddenhurst ; 
" I always find, that nothing more effectually drives 
away my tears than having them bespoke. Pathetic 
touches, to produce their effect, should take the reader 
by surprise, I think." 

" I question if those lines could have surprised me 
into tears," said Mr. Leddenhurst. 

" Oh, TiO\.you^ papa ! " said Richard, laughing ; ^^men 
should never cry, should they, if they can help it?" 

" Neither men nor women should cry, if they can 
help it," answered his father. 

" I can remember seeing papa cry, though," whis- 
pered little Lucy, " when he was telling mamma how 
glad the shabby looking gentleman looked at the sight 
of the guinea ; I saw a tear in the corner of his eye, 
just for a moment." 

Elizabeth was so much absorbed by the little vexa- 
tion she had just experienced, and by endeavoring to 
ascertain the precise construction that had been put 
upon her sensibility, that the conversation had taken a 
different turn before she was aware, and she found Mr. 



DISPLAY. 19 

Leddenhurst in the middle of a long story. He had 
travelled ; and was giving an account of a night he 
once spent in a Laplander's hut ; which the children 
thought so very entertaining that they often begged 
their father to tell it to them over again ; and they now 
came from the further end of the room, where they 
were quietly at play, saying, *^ Oh, papa is telling about 
the little Laplanders 1 " 

Elizabeth suddenly roused herself to the appearance 
of lively attention. They who feel interest have no 
need to feign it ; but it rarely happened that Elizabeth 
was really interested by conversation to which she was 
only a listener. The vain and selfish deprive them- 
selves of most genuine pleasures. There was nothing 
now for her but to wait till the recital was finished ; to 
wait for her turn, with that sort of impatience which 
good-breeding itself can sometimes scarcely conceal, in 
those whose sole object in society is to make an impres- 
sion. But Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst had seen the 
little artifices of vanity practised by greater proficients 
than Elizabeth. She was not the first person in whom 
they had observed a greedy impatience to squeeze into 
conversation every scrap of information that can be 
collected upon the point in hand. Little do they im- 
agine, who angle for admiration by this and similar 
methods, how completely their end is defeated, at least 
with respect to acute observers. They who are intent 
upon being heard and seen, are not often observers ; 
nor can they l^elieve how easily they are detected by 
those who know how to hear and see. The involun- 
tary admiration which is inspired by wit or beauty, and 
especially the respect for talents and acquirements, are, 
to say the least, neutralized, if but a suspicion be ex- 
cited that they are used as articles of display. 

Elizabeth would have been really agreeable, if she 
could but have forgotten to be charming. Her form 
was delicate ; her face handsome, — and it might have 



20 DISPLA V. 

been interesting, if the constant effort to make it so 
had not given a restlessness to her features which was 
far from pleasing : her eye first shot its spark, and then 
looked about for the damage. In her sensibiHty, espe- 
cially, there was an appearance of artificialness, which 
rendered it difficult to feel real sympathy with her. 

'^ There is nothing I have ever wished for so much 
as to travel," said Elizabeth, when Mr. Leddenhurst 
had finished his narration ; " it must be so excessively 
interesting, I should think, especially with an intelligent 
companion." 

^' We who are obliged to stay at home," said Mrs. 
Leddenhurst, '^ may, however, enjoy, by our firesides, 
most of the information and a considerable share of 
the entertainment of going abroad ; we are now so 
abundantly supplied with the observations of trav- 
ellers." 

" Yes," replied Elizabeth ; " and there is no kind of 
reading I am so partial to as voyages and travels ; they 
are so uncommonly interesting." 

^^ Very interesting indeed," said Mrs. Leddenhurst ; 
" though I cannot say there is no kind of reading that 
I am so partial to." 

" Oh, certainly not ; I did not mean to say no kind 
of reading, but — but really I am surprised," continued 
she, " that Mr. Leddenhurst was never prevailed upon 
to publish his tour; it would, I am sure, have been 
such an acquisition ! " 

At this Mrs. Leddenhurst only smiled, and began 
talking to Emily, who had fallen into a revery in /ler 
turn ; but it was not about herself nor the company : 
her imagination had been carried by Mr. Leddenhurst's 
narrative to polar regions ; and was wandering over 
fields of ice, and arctic snows, where 

" the shapeless bear, 

With dangling ice, all horrid, stalks forlorn," 

when Mrs. Leddenhurst recalled her recollection. 



D IS PL A V. 2 1 

The evening passed rapidly away ; and to Emily it 
was passing very happily. But Elizabeth felt an un- 
easiness which she would have been at a loss to define ; 
there was nothing to complain of, but she was not 
gratified. She had been brilliant, and arch, and playful ; 
she had caressed Lucy, and admired CaroHne, but 
without effect ; and there was a certain expression in 
Mr. Leddenhurst's eye, when she happened to meet it, 
that did not quite please her. The vexation she really 
felt suggested a new experiment. Her animation gave 
place rather suddenly to an air of pensiveness : she 
was silent and thoughtful ; and started when spoken 
to as though waked from an interesting revery. Not- 
withstanding this, conversation went on very briskly, 
and even became increasingly lively. As she appeared 
disincHned to converse, she was suffered to be silent. 
At length Mr. Leddenhurst observed it, and said, '' My 
dear, cannot we think of anything that will entertain 
Miss Palmer?" 

" Here is a new botanical work, with colored plates : 
perhaps you will like to look at it," said Mrs. Led- 
denhurst ; and the book and the candles were placed 
before poor Elizabeth, mortified beyond measure to be 
treated like a child, dull for want of amusement. Her 
assumed pensiveness now degenerated into real ill 
humor, which was but ill disguised during the remain- 
der of the evening. 

The fresh air sometimes produces a surprising effect 
in restoring people to their senses ; and EHzabeth, 
when she had taken leave, and walked a few minutes 
in the wind, began to repent of her behavior. How- 
ever, they had bade her good night, and repeated their 
invitation so kindly, that she hoped it had not been 
particularly observed : and when Emily, who had been 
too much occupied to remark her friend's disappoint- 
ment, observed what a pleasant evening they had 
passed, Ehzabeth assented, saying, " A delightful even- 
ing, indeed ! " 



22 D ISP LA V. 

Happy are they who do not go into company to 
perform ; who can think an evening pleasantly spent, 
that has been unproductive of comphment, and af- 
forded no particular opportunity of displaying the 
favorite quality, or talent, or acquirement. 

There are some unfortunate persons who seem to 
make little other use of conversation than as a means 
of petty, personal aggrandizement ; and who, in con- 
sequence of this wretched propensity, little as they 
suspect it, subject themselves to the contempt or pity 
of those whose opinions are most valuable. 

There is a class of speechmakers^ who contrive by 
ingenious aUusions, and hints casually dropped, to let 
you know what they feared you might not otherwise 
find out. They are letting off fireworks ; and when 
it seems all over, and there are only a few pitiful sparks 
dropping about — off goes another ! But it never 
succeeds. For, whether it be ^^my uncle's carriage," 
or "my friend the colonel," or "the general," or 
" when I was on the Continent," or " only 2.jeii d'esprit 
of mine, a very foolish thing," or " Latin ? Oh, scarce- 
ly a word, I assure you," or " a cousin of mine knows 
him intimately," or " when I write to Lady so and so," 
or all these one after another, — such hints afford a 
kind of information which is not intended to be con- 
veyed. They prove, not only that her uncle keeps his 
carriage, that she knows a colonel and a general, that 
she has been on the Continent, that she writes poetry 
(and foolish things), that she learns Latin, that her 
cousin knows a learned man, that she corresponds with 
Lady so and so, but they show that she is anxious you 
should know it ; that she considers such things as dis- 
tinctions ; and that they are to her new or rare ; for 
people seldom boast of that which they have always 
been accustomed to. And, what is worst of all, it 
must create a suspicion that she has nothing more left 
to boast of. For she who gives out that she reads 



DISPLA Y, 23 

Latin, is not likely to conceal her knowledge of Hebrew 
or Greek; and she who intimates that she writes to 
Lady A., would assuredly let you know it if she had 
any connection with Ladies B., C, or D. 

But the symptoms of vanity are almost infinitely 
various ; there is no genus comprehending a greater 
variety of species. The silly girl, vain of her dress and 
complexion, is really one of the least offensive and 
most pardonable of all ; for in proportion to the value 
of the thing boasted of is the meanness of the boast. 
Hence a pedant is more contemptible than a coxcomb. 

But whatever particular character it assumes, that 
mind is in miserable bondage whose happiness is de- 
pendent on the opinion, especially on the applause of 
others. It is a bondage which seems always the con- 
comitant of a general moral imbecility, whether that 
imbecility be cause or effect. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Emily's introduction to her new friends at this period 
of her Hfe was a more important circumstance than she 
was aware of, highly as she felt disposed to value their 
friendship. Notwithstanding her many good qualities, 
she was not free from faults. She was sensible, modest, 
and ingenuous, but she was — eighteen. 

She lost her mother early ; and her father, although 
desirous to do everything in his power for the welfare 
of his only child, was not aware of the best means to 
promote it. He was a man of business, and it did not 
occur to him that anything more was requisite than to 
send her for several years to an established school, from 
whence he expected her to return completely educated. 
He did not consider that it is often not until the time 



24 DISPLA V. 

when young persons leave school, that the real ardor 
for self-improvement is excited, which it is of so great 
importance to direct and cultivate. 

Girls of entirely common minds take leave of their 
books, and often of the accomplishments which they 
have acquired at such a vast expense of money and 
time, at the conclusion of the last half year, — delighted 
to exchange them for the pleasures from which they 
had been reluctantly restrained during the tedious 
periods from Christmas to Midsummer, and from Mid- 
summer to Christmas. Revelling for a few giddy years 
in vanity and idleness, they by and by settle in life ; 
and, as the vigor and interest of youthfulness subside, 
sink into those ordinary beings who, with thousands of 
their kind, eat, drink, and sleep, dress, visit, and die ; 
while young people in whom the spark of intelligence 
has been enkindled are exposed to different dangers. 
Pride, pedantry, romance, and many other evils, ac- 
cording to the accidents of disposition and education, 
are the frequent consequences of partial and uncor- 
rected cultivation. 

Emily's simplicity was her grand preservative from 
many of these perils ; and she possessed a native deli- 
cacy of taste, which defended her from others. With 
the choice of all the volumes in the circulating library 
of a country town, her reading had been tolerably se- 
lect. When she left school, her father informed her 
that " he did not approve of young girls reading nov- 
els ; " but he had Httle hope that the prohibition would 
be regarded, because he firmly believed that " young 
girls wou/d resid novels." But in this instance, Emily 
had less temptation to disobedience than many : from 
whatever was common, low, or profane, she always 
shrunk with dislike. Good taste had in some measure 
suppHed the place of good principle ; and of all the 
gifts of nature, that instinctive fineness of feeling is most 
estimable, of which education itself can but produce an 
imitation. 



DISPLAY. 25 

Emily read and felt poetry, and lived in its atmos- 
phere ; but as none of the beings around her did the 
same, she shut herself up in her own world of enjoy- 
ment ; neither desiring to interfere with the pursuits 
and pleasures of other people, nor wishing them to par- 
ticipate in hers. She loved her father tenderly, and 
was obedient and attentive to him; but he was so 
wholly incapable of entering into her feelings concern- 
ing those things which she thought most interesting 
that she never attempted to address him in a language 
which she knew would have been quite unintelligible ; 
while he, satisfied with her cheerful looks and dutiful 
conduct, dreamed not of the ideal world his daughter 
inhabited. He studied to make her happy by supply- 
ing her with all the comforts and pleasures his circum- 
stances would allow ; but it was not for these things 
that Emily felt most obliged to her father. Having 
never known the want of a constant supply of those 
daily comforts which are as really necessary to the in- 
tellectual as to the unrefined, she had not learned to 
value them. It was the liberty she enjoyed to pursue 
her own pleasures, the luxury of being alone, the inesti- 
mable privilege of not being obliged to talk, &c. that 
inspired her with gratitude, and made her think him 
the best and kindest of fathers. And indeed this grati- 
tude was not misplaced ; for that sort of kindness 
which allows the object of it, as far as possible, to pur- 
sue its own plan of happiness, is that alone which 
makes the difference between gratitude and thanks. 
It is but a selfish kind of generosity to load persons 
with favors they do not value, and thwart them in the 
very point on which their pleasure depends. 

There was one standing trial of Emily's good nature ; 
this was, that her father expected her to read the news- 
paper to him every day after dinner. The sight of the 
newspaper was disagreeable to her ; and politics were 
worse than uninteresting. However, she thought of 



26 D IS PL A V. 

Milton's daughters, and made the daily sacrifice with a 
good grace ; and by degrees attained so great a pro- 
ficiency in the art of reading and carrying on her own 
train of thought at the same time, that it became less 
burdensome. The kind ^^ Thank ye, dear," with which 
her father always repaid her when she finished her task, 
reproached her more than anything, if she had per- 
formed it with reluctance. 

The company of " uninteresting people," as Emily 
secretly styled the whole circle of her acquaintance, 
would have been grievously burdensome but for this 
habit of abstraction, which enabled her to take some 
apparent share in conversation, and to enjoy her own 
delicious musings at the same time. It could not, 
however, escape the observation of her friends, that her 
own contemplations seemed more agreeable to her than 
their company ; and she had sometimes been called 
proud j but it was not by those who knew her, — those 
who had opportunities of witnessing her invariable 
sweetness and good-nature, and the obliging alacrity 
with which, when once roused from a revery, she would 
do anything, for anybody; though it sometimes hap- 
pened that her services were required before her atten- 
tion was excited. 

Notwithstanding this indifference towards most of 
those she had hitherto known, Emily had very sublime 
notions about friendship ; and from her first conver- 
sation with Miss Weston, she believed she had found 
that concerning which, as yet, she had only speculated. 
Her heart soon glowed and expanded with affection 
and respect towards the whole family at Stokely. Al- 
though the acquaintance was so recent, she felt more 
at home there than in the circle of her old associates ; 
for she was with beings who understood her, to whom 
she could express her feelings without the dread of 
being stared at for eccentricity. Not that her new 
friends by any means coincided in all Emily's feelings 



DISPLAY. 27 

and opinions ; but they were not misinterpreted, nor 
ridiculed ; and when corrected, it was with a tender- 
ness and reasonableness that made her quite sure she 
had been in the wrong. 

But it was not likely that a girl of Emily's age and 
disposition should love such friends as the ' Ledden- 
hursts — especially as they were new friends — with 
entire sobriety and moderation. In comparison with 
them, everybody appeared uninteresting and insignifi- 
cant ; and everything belonging to Stokely appeared to 
her to possess some peculiar excellence, incommuni- 
cable to any other place or thing. The children seemed 
more lively and engaging than all other children ; the 
flowers more fragrant ; the trees more picturesque. 

When she walked out with her father, she always 
pleaded to go that road, or at least some walk where 
the house was in view ; and it was a sort of pleasure if 
they happened to meet even a greyhound belonging to 
Stokely. For on such an occasion — perhaps after she 
had been wondering that her father should seem so 
much interested in what he was talking about — she 
would exclaim with sudden animation, " There 's Leo- 
pard ! pretty fellow ! See, papa, is not he a graceful 
creature?" — and be disappointed that her father ap- 
peared so little interested by the interview. But when 
once affection, however well placed, exceeds the 
bounds of reason, it becomes a source of at least as 
much torment as delight. They who live on imaginary 
pleasures must expect a balance of real pain. Emily 
did not expect, and she thought she did not even w^ish, 
for an equal return of affection from these friends ; but 
she was too anxious about it : and although they gave 
the most substantial proofs of their regard for her, she 
tormented herself when any little expression of it was ac- 
cidentally withheld. It is not until persons enter upon 
the realities of life, that they learn to distinguish be- 
tween what is essential and what is trifling, in friendship 



28 DISPLA V. 

as well as other things ; and Emily had this and many 
other lessons to learn, which are never effectually taught 
but by experience. She possessed, however, a certain 
nobleness of temper, which prevented her from feeling 
jealous of Elizabeth. If ever she detected in herself 
a tendency to that meanness, she instantly discarded it, 
and thought, " Is not she m^ friendl " 

As Emily became better acquainted with them, she 
saw and heard many things at Stokely that surprised, 
and even disappointed her. Mr. Leddenhurst, for in- 
stance, appeared really interested about politics, or 
rather pubHc affairs ; and Mrs. Leddenhurst engaged in 
her domestic concerns, not so much as matters of dry 
duty as Emily had generally considered them. 

She observed, too, that they entered into conver- 
sation with their guests, with a degree of interest that 
exceeded, she thought, the requirements of politeness ; 
instead of practising that dexterous conciseness of reply 
which brings a tiresome subject to the quickest possible 
termination. 

But what surprised her most of all, and occasioned 
her the most pain, was a confession one day from Miss 
Weston, that she was by no means devoted to poetry. 
She felt no higher delight in it than every cultivated 
mind must derive froip the productions of the best 
poets ; and she assured Emily, that she had more sat- 
isfaction in reading works addressed to the understand- 
ing than in the finest productions of imagination. 

Observing that her young friend looked disappointed, 
she added : '' But, Emily, you must not suppose that 
I despise or undervalue the taste in others, because I 
do not possess it myself. I not only tolerate, but I 
admire it, where it is correct, and does not stand in 
the place of better things." 

" But yet," said Emily, " I wish you felt exactly as I 
do about it." 

Now Emily possessed more genuine poetical taste 



DISPLAY, 29 

than many who talk a great deal about poetry. It was 
not the fashionable admiration of the poem or poet of 
the day ; nor the pedantic taste of the classic, or the 
critic ; nor the indiscriminating rapture of youthful en- 
thusiasm ; but she had an eye to see, a heart to feel, 
and taste to select, the truly poetical, not only in books 
— but in nature, in life, in sentiment. 

She did not often yield to the temptation of scrib- 
bling; when she did, it was to express and gratify some 
feeling of the moment ; not to show about among her 
acquaintance, nor to send to a magazine or a news- 
paper. She was quite convinced that her own com- 
positions were juvenile at best, and far inferior to the 
productions of poets that she did not greatly admire. 
This was one instance in which her good taste proved 
of essential service to her. It saved her from the 
unhappy mistake of those, who perceive no difference 
between writing verses and writing poetry ; and who 
accordingly go on writing verses, as many as you please 
— or more : which is an art as easy of attainment as 
that of doing cobble-stitch, or making patchwork, or 
painting sprigs on a thread-paper. 

They were just entering on a disquisition upon 
poetical taste, when a morning call interrupted the 
conversation. It was Miss Oliver, — one of the stand- 
ing inhabitants of the town. 

She belonged to a class of ladies, of whom it may be 
said, that they are good for nothing but to be married. 
Let no intellectual Cxlebs object to the expression ; it 
is not intended to recommend her to him. 

At eighteen she was tolerably pretty ; and about as 
lively as mere youth will make those who have no 
native spring of vivacity. Her education, like her 
mind, was common. If she had married, she might 
have performed the ordinary offices of domestic life as 
well as they are ordinarily performed. Though she 
had not cared much for her husband, she would 



so DISPLAY, 

probably have loved her children ; and the maternal 
duties and affections of themselves impart a degree of 
interest to any character. But she did not marry, 
although trained to consider marriage as the grand 
object at which she was to aim. 

Year after year passed away ; during which, her at- 
tendance at the Christmas rout, the Easter ball, the 
summer races, was tiresomely punctual. At, length it 
became necessary, by extra attention to dress, and 
studious vivacity, to show that she was still young ; but 
even that time was gone by, and she now only labored 
to prove that she was not old. Disappointment, and 
the discontent occasioned by the want of an object in 
life, had drawn lines in her face which time might still 
have spared. It sunk down into dismal vacuity after 
every effort at sprightliness ; for, without mind enough 
to be pensive, she was habitually dull. 

Her circumstances did not allow her the relief of 
frequenting places of fashionable resort ; she contrived 
to exist with no other air, and no better water, than 
were to be obtained in her native parish. The few 
families in the neighborhood with whom, in her youth- 
ful days, she used to spend her Christmas or her Whit- 
suntide were dead, or dispersed, or the acquaintance 
was broken off: so that the routs and card-parties of this 
little town were the only relief to her monotony ; where 
she went to meet the same faces, and to say and hear 
the same nothings as ever. 

It was no wonder, therefore, that the veriest trifle — 
a new stitch, or a new pattern — became to her an 
affair of importance ; that the gossip of the neighbor- 
hood seemed essential to her existence ; and that, with- 
out malignity, scandal should become an entertainment, 
and mischief a recreation. 

Having conversed for a short time with Mrs. Led- 
denhurst, in a strain of commonness that forbade the 
supposition of an original thought having ever by any 



DISPLAY. 31 

accident strayed into her brain, she took leave. As 
Mr. Leddenhurst shut the door after her, Emily was 
greatly surprised to hear him say, " Every human being 
is interesting." Thinking her, and most other human 
beings, uninteresting, she could not understand this at 
all. But to Mr. Leddenhurst, who was an observer of 
human nature, and studied it as the most important 
and interesting of sciences, every specimen was valua- 
ble, for every specimen presents some shade of variety. 
But there was a still higher interest, which the meanest 
of his fellow-creatures did not fail to excite. Chris- 
tian benevolence was with him an active principle ; 
and the earnest desire of doing good led him to seek 
and cultivate the society of those whom the pride of 
intellect, or the selfish indulgences of taste, would have 
taught him only to shun. 

" What an alteration," said he, " an interest in re- 
ligion would make in such a countenance as that 
lady's ! " 

Nor was it uncharitable of him to apprehend that 
she was one of the many who pay no decided regard 
to it. There is a vulgar cant belonging to people of 
the world, which as effectually betrays their frater- 
nity, as any peculiar phraseology called rehgious cant 
can do. 

" I never remember," continued Mr. Leddenhurst, 
" observing such an expression of listless vacuity in the 
face of the meanest Christian. Habitual thoughts of 
God, and of eternity, will impress some trace of mind 
upon the countenance. What a new world of hope 
and happiness might be opened to such a character ! 
Caroline, let us cultivate her acquaintance." 



32 DISPLAY, 



CHAPTER V. 



Elizabeth and Emily accepted, with apparently- 
equal eagerness, the offer of their friends at Stokely, 
to assist them in their course of study and self- improve- 
ment. They had free access to Mr. Leddenhurst's am- 
ple library, and the advantage of his advice' to direct 
their choice of books. The course of reading recom- 
mended to Emily was calculated to inspire her with a 
taste for solid acquirements and general information ; 
and to correct, without impairing, the liveliness of her 
fancy and the originality of her mind. 

They found it more difficult to ascertain what plan of 
study was most congenial to Elizabeth's taste, or most 
likely to improve it. The pleasure she took in reading, 
or in any kind of study, for its own sake, w^as but small. 
It was less, perhaps, than she was herself aware of ; be- 
cause she was not accustomed to analyze her motives ; 
and she might possibly mistake the avidity with which 
she often sat down to read a book in the morning, 
■ which she intended to talk about in the evening, for 
the pure love of knowledge, or the gratification of gen- 
uine taste. 

How many books Elizabeth would have read, and 
how many things she would have learned, if she had 
been Robinson Crusoe^ she never inquired. 

A very superficial kind of knowledge had been hith- 
erto sufficient to answer all the purposes to which she 
appHed it ; but now that she was associating with per- 
sons who possessed, and evidently valued, more sub- 
stantial acquisitions, she began to apply herself to them 
with avidity : for Elizabeth could accommodate herself 
to the different manners, tastes, and opinions of differ- 
ent people — which she possessed some sagacity in . 
discovering — in a way truly astonishing to simple be- 
holders. 



DISPLAY. ZZ 

There was now nothing so dry, so difficult, or so 
wholly foreign to her real taste, which she would not 
have set herself about if it had been recommended at 
Stokely, or if Emily had been going to apply to it. 

What a pity that so much labor should be lost ! — 
lost, not only with respect to the particular end aimed 
at, but as to any sterling advantage to her own mind ; 
and her new friends were pained to perceive that, with 
all her laborious efforts to obtain it, she missed the only 
method of gaining solid approbation. They did not, 
indeed, wish to discourage her in the pains she was 
willing to take ; but above all they would have been 
pleased to see her aiming to extirpate the radical 
evil; and becoming simple, honest, unobtrusive, and 
in earnest. 

Elizabeth^s studies were interrupted one morning, 
by revolving a scheme, which was suggested to her by 
something she heard Mrs. Leddenhurst say the evening 
before, about establishing a Sunday school for the poor 
children of Broadisham ; and as soon as she had break- 
fasted, she stepped into the disorderly cottage of a 
neighboring cobbler, who had seven or eight dirty chil- 
dren that were always either playing or fighting in the 
street, and, to the great surprise of the whole family, 
she offered to teach them all to. read. 

At first they did not seem to understand her ; and 
when they did, they appeared less struck with her gen- 
erosity than she had expected. The father went on 
with his work, with a proud sullen countenance. The 
mother grinned stupidly ; and said, " I don't know as 
they '11 choose to larn. Bill, boy, oo'll ye like to larn 
to read ? Sal, do ye hear ? oo'll you choose to larn to, 
read, child?" 

Bill said " No ; " Sal said " Yes ; " while Elizabeth, 
indignant at their rudeness and ingratitude, would have 
left them to their ignorance ; but recollecting her ob- 
ject, she condescended to expostulate, representing the 

3 



34 DISPLA V. 

importance of the acquisition; and ^^You know/' said 
she, ^' you cannot get them taught for less than two- 
pence a week anywhere in the town ; and I tell you I 
will teach them all for nothing." 

Finding, however, that she made no impression on 
the parents, she turned to the children, saying, ^^ Well, 
if you '11 come and let me teach you to read, I will 
give you all a halfpenny apiece every Sunday morn- 
ing." 

These words, ^^ a halfpenny apiece," were the only 
ones the children seemed to understand. 

'^ I '11 come, if you like," said one of them ; '' And 
so '11 I," '' And so '11 I," said some of the others. So, 
in consequence of her liberal promise, she had four or 
five dirty scholars the next Sunday morning. 

But while the children were thinking of their half- 
penny, and Elizabeth of her reputation, a b c was a 
dull subject to both parties. 

^' B, I tell you, you stupid little creature ! " said she, 
again and again; but at last her scholars were dis- 
missed, with scarce any other notion about a, b, and c 
than that there was some connection between them and 
a halfpenny. 

The very next day, as Elizabeth was walking with 
Miss Weston and Emily, they met a party of young 
ladies, who asked Ehzabeth what made her '' so un- 
commonly late at church yesterday morning?" 

" Why, I was detained rather longer than I intended 
by my little scholars," said she. 

^^ Scholars ! " said Emily. 

" What scholars have you? " said Miss Weston. 
, " Only a few poor children, that I teach to read on 
Sundays," answered Elizabeth, carelessly. 

'' Indeed ! I am pleased to hear that : I did not 
know there was any one here who — indeed I am 
very much pleased to hear it," said Miss Weston ; and 
as she spoke, she looked at Ehzabeth with such an 



DISPLA V. 35 

expression of approbation as she was not accustomed 
to receive. 

For Miss Weston's was a charity that not only 
"hoped all things," but "believed all things" in a 
wider sense than would have been possible, had she 
possessed a little more intuitive perception of character. 
But it was not 

" Her nature's plague to spy into abuses. " 

Herself perfectly upright and sincere, any species of 
dissimulation appeared to her almost impossible ; and 
the actual discovery of artifice, at which the malignant 
would be gratified and the sarcastic amused, filled her 
only with grief and pity. 

That evening Elizabeth was invited to Stokely, to 
assist in forming a plan for a Sunday-school. 

" We have certainly injured poor Elizabeth," said 
Miss Weston, when she mentioned the circumstance to 
Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst. " Not that I should think 
so much of her having raised a httle school of her own 
when no one else had thought of it, but she has never 
told us, never boasted of it, even when we were speak- 
ing on the subject ; Emily herself did not know of it." 

" I am surprised at that," said Mrs. Leddenhurst. 

As soon as Elizabeth arrived they began consult- 
ing about the school. 

"We have no wish, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ledden- 
hurst, " to interfere with your arrangements ; as you 
were the first to begin, we shall be quite contented to 
follow you. What plan, my dear, have you pursued 
with your scholars hitherto? " 

" Oh," said Elizabeth, coloring, " I have no very 
particular plan ; I hear them read, you know, — and 
so forth : but I am sure you and Miss Weston under- 
stand these things much better than I do." 

Mrs. Leddenhurst then described some of the ar- 
rangements and methods of teaching which had proved 



36 DISPLAY. 

successful in schools she had formerly been engaged 
in : and as they entirely met Elizabeth's approbation, 
it was determined to proceed without delay. 

A convenient room was provided in the middle of 
the town ; and EHzabeth and Emily, with a few other 
young people, undertook to attend regularly, twice 
every Sunday. The poor families around were not 
all so insensible of the privilege as Elizabeth's cobbler ; 
for a school of fifty children was presently raised, and 
the numbers increased continually. More teachers 
were soon wanted ; but of all the ladies who were ap- 
plied to, few were found willing to lend a helping hand. 
Many were too indolent ; and others were afraid of 
having anything to do with what they thought a 
Methodistical concern. There were some who ap- 
peared very eager in it at first ; but as soon as the 
novelty was over, they became irregular in their at- 
tendance, and dropped off, one by one : for to submit 
to the self-denial and exertion requisite to a regular 
and persevering attendance at a Sunday school, requires, 
in general, some stronger motive than mere caprice ; 
although many motives beside the right one may be 
strong enough. 

In this exigence, they gladly accepted the assistance 
of two or three young women of a lower class, who 
came forward to offer their services. They appeared 
quite competent to the undertaking, having been for- 
merly engaged in a small Sunday school, which fell off 
for want of the means to support it. 

One of these, well known by the name of " Betsy 
Pryke," was a person of some repute among her friends 
and acquaintance. 

She was a sharp, neat, compact, conceited-looking 
person, who kept a little haberdasher's shop in the 
market-place. By the aid of some quickness, a good 
memory, and what was called a great taste for reading, 
she had accumulated a curious mass of heterogeneous 



DISPLAY, 37 

lore, with which she was accustomed to astonish, if not 
to edify, her simple neighbors. She was particularly 
fond of hard names and words of many syllables ; and 
her conversation was frequently interspersed with quo- 
tations from Young, Herv^ey, and Mrs. Rowe. 

Her customers, in addition to their purchase, were 
generally favored with a little learning, gratis, while she 
was weighing the pins or measuring the tape ; and 
even before those whom she could not venture to en- 
tertain with famihar discourse, some fine* word, or 
knowing remark, was dexterously dropped, to let them 
know what she was; and her behavior to this class of 
her customers was marked by that mixture of pertness 
and servility which is commonly produced by self- 
conceit in dependent circumstances. 

To these qualifications. Miss Pryke added a flaming 
profession of religion. She was one of the very few 
inhabitants of this town who appeared to pay any 
serious regard to it ; and among those pious, simple 
people, who possessed little of the wisdom or knowl- 
edge of this world, she passed for a pattern of zeal and 
sanctity. Miss Pryke's creed was all creed : she was 
fond of holding argumentations upon a few points on 
which she considered herself to have attained more 
light than the generality of plain Christians. She ap- 
peared to take Httle interest in the practical parts of 
Christianity, about which there is no controversy ; and 
upon those who made anything more than a distant or 
casual reference to these subjects, she readily bestowed 
her enlightened pity. They were " persons in the 
dark ; " and if they were ministers, they were " bhnd 
leaders of the blind/' and knew nothing of the gospel. 
She valued comfort much above consistency, and was 
more observant of hex frames than of her temper. 

She could quote Scripture with great facility; but 
was fonder of hearing it allegorized than explained. 
She had by rote the whole string of those phrases, 



3S D ISP LA V, 

and particular modes of expression, which pass current 
among some good people, and which, although fre- 
quently used with the utmost sincerity, are very far 
from being evidences of it. 

Susannah Davy was a person of a very different 
description : she was an humble, serious, and superior 
young woman. Her father was an ale-house keeper, a 
profane, violent man ; he scoffed at religion, and had 
treated his daughter with great severity since she be- 
came acquainted with its value. But she submitted to 
his harsh treatment with patience and meekness, and 
conducted herself in his riotous house with such strict 
propriety that she was respected by the lowest who 
frequented it. 

Whenever she could be spared from the business 
below, she took refuge from the disorderly company in 
the kitchen, in her quiet chamber ; where, with her 
Bible and a very few good books, she passed many a 
tranquil and happy hour. 

She had a pleasing, intelligent face ; and while her 
manners were perfectly unassuming, there was a dignified 
reserve in her deportment. Her dress was neat and 
plain. She had that nice sense of propriety which 
secured her from the vulgarity of dressing beyond her 
station. 

She showed that she respected herself by her uni- 
formly respectful behavior towards her superiors ; and 
the circumstance of the ladies she was now introduced 
to being her fellow- Christians did not dispose her to 
forget what was due to them. She had read that 
superiors are "not to be despised because they are 
brethren;''^ and she felt no inclination to practise that 
unbecoming famiHarity which in some instances has 
proved a hindrance to profitable Christian intercourse 
between the brother of high and of low degree. 

The fault, however, is not always on one side ; there 
is a manner in which some good and very charitable 



DISPLA V, 39 

people behave towards their inferiors in rank, which 
must be grating to those who retain any independence 
of mind. 

It was not thus with the Leddenhursts ; they always 
remembered and respected the natural rights of the 
poor, — those rights which belong to them in common 
with the rich, and which, in so many essential respects, 
place all the ranks of mankind upon an equality. 
They considered their services as voluntary, their 
dwellings as sacred, and above all, their minds as free 
as their own. 

There were few families more beloved, and more 
justly, by their poor neighbors, than the Leddenhursts-; 
and few, perhaps, whose intercourse with their nee'dy 
tenantry was so entirely free from the debasing spirit 
oi feudalism, — that spirit which has so long survived 
the system. They were the friends of the poor, 
without calling themselves, or wishing to be called, 
such names as patrons, benefactors, and the like. 
Their offices of charity were never performed with that 
superlative condescendingness of tone and manner, 
which, though it may be thought excessively amiable, 
is but a creditable way of being proud j and which 
does, in fact, neither become nor belong to one being, 
in its transactions with another of the same species. 
Nor were their religious instructions and advice given 
with an air of persons invested with the authority of 
Church and State. They always used to reason^ as 
well as to exhort; and to reason Jirst. They well 
knew that authority can no more bind opinion than 
chains can bind sunbeams. 

They took particular care to instil proper notions on 
this subject into the minds of their children ; that when 
they were going about on little errands of kindness to 
their cottages, they might not fancy themselves such con- 
descending little cherubs as some foolish people might 
call them. They were told that a child cannot conde- 



40 DISPLA V. 

scend to a grown person : and the little Leddenhursts 
were remarked for their modest, respectful behavior to 
servants, and to the poor. Nor were the.y ever en- 
couraged in anything that might make their charities 
look picturesque : for their parents were aware that, 
with every possible precaution, it is difficult enough to 
prevent a frightful mixture of motives in the perform- 
ance of any good work. 

But all this time Susannah Davy is waiting to speak 
to Mrs. Leddenhurst. Her appearance very much 
prepossessed them in her favor ; and they accepted the 
offer of her services with still more readiness than that 
of her sagacious friend. They both, however, seemed 
well qualified for the employment ; and Elizabeth and 
Emily, to whom such engagements were entirely new, 
appeared at first, in comparison with them, to some 
disadvantage as teachers of a Sunday school. 

Indeed, they both experienced some disappointment 
in this concern. In itself it was wholly uninteresting 
to Elizabeth : for what is there in a row of poor chil- 
dren, to interest a vain, selfish mind ? And she found 
it more unproductive in other respects than she had 
expected. Although she would lose a great deal by 
withdrawing her attendance, there was but little to be 
gained by continuing it. She was but one of a number, 
undistinguished among the other teachers, who were 
too busy with their own classes to observe Elizabeth's 
attention to hers. 

Emily's disappointment was of a different kind. 
She had surveyed the form of children allotted to her 

— which consisted of the usual proportion of the 
stupid, the brisk, the idle, the diligent, and the froward 

— with sanguine expectations of what instruction 
would do for them ; not calculating on the dull com- 
prehensions, feeble powers, or perverse dispositions of 
the little beings she had to deal with. She soon dis- 
covered that the pleasant reward of immediate or cer- 



D ISP LA Y. 41 

tain success was not that which could be depended 
upon ; and Miss Weston told her that the only way not 
to feel discouraged, was to be contented with the satis- 
faction of endeavoring to do good to our fellow-crea- 
tures. She knew better than Emily what consequences 
to expect from such exertions ; and was contented to 
perceive, that the children were tolerably regular in 
their attendance ; that they made a^ real, though slow 
progress in their learning; and that they gradually 
became more decent and orderly in their appearance 
and behavior. 

It struck Miss Weston that the new teacher, Miss 
Pryke, regarded her friends Elizabeth and Emily with 
an evil eye. Some hints she occasionally dropped 
confirmed this suspicion ; but she had not given her an 
opportunity to explain herself fully, having rather 
avoided entering into conversation with Miss Pryke. 
Her manner of talking, especially upon religious sub- 
jects, was not agreeable to Miss Weston. She had 
much greater pleasure in conversing with Susannah 
Davy. The poor in this world are often ^'rich in 
faith ; " and many a lesson of patience, trust, and 
cheerful suffering, may be learned from their " simple 
annals." When this pious, humble girl told of the 
peace and happiness she enjoyed during her hours of 
retirement, even in the midst of hardships and insults, 
Miss Weston felt that if her own sorrows were more 
refined, her consolations were not more elevated. 

The truth was, that Miss Pryke was not very well 
pleased to find Elizabeth and Emily in office at the 
school. She knew that they had always been num- 
bered among the gay young people of the town ; and 
she augured no good from admitting people of the 
world to engage in such a servdce. Miss Pryke's 
notions concerning this phrase, ^^ people of the world," 
were neither liberal nor correct. It is a phrase which 
cannot be particularly attached to wealth or station ; nor 



42 DISPLAY. 

is there any condition of life, any creed, or party, from 
which it must necessarily be excluded. They who 
love God supremely, and serve Him faithfully, are fiot 
of the world ; they who prefer anything before Him, 
are of the world, though they may '^ call him Lord,'* 
and " prophesy in his name." And it is of little conse- 
quence whether the worldly mind be seeking its grati- 
fication from a display of dress and beauty in the glitter 
of a ball-room, or from a display of its gifts among a 
few poor brethren at a prayer meeting : each is loving 
"the praise of men more than the praise of God." 

But this was not the view of the subject that Miss 
Pryke was accustomed to take. With the exception of 
herself and a few of her friends, she considered all the 
inhabitants of Broadisham, especially those of the 
higher class, emphatically, " the worlds And however 
true this appeared to be with respect to the majority, 
her charity would never stretch so far as to allow, no, 
nor to hope, that there might be some among them, 
who, humbled at heart, and essentially relying on their 
unhonored Saviour, might grope their way to heaven, 
through all the rubbish of ignorance, error, and 
Pharisaic prejudice, which worldly connections, and 
unfaithful instructions, must throw in their way. But 
" God seeth not as man seeth." 

One day, when Mrs. Leddenhurst and Miss Weston 
remained after the school was dismissed, to make 
some arrangements in the room, Miss Pryke seized the 
opportunity she had been wishing for. Mrs. Ledden- 
hurst remarked that the children were making as much 
progress as could be expected. 

" Yes, certainly, ma'am," said Miss Pryke, '^ as it 
respects their temporal instruction; but for my part," 
added she, sighing, " I could have wished to see the 
work prospering in our hands in a different way to 
what it does. It would be a great encouragement to 
my mind, I must say, to see some of these dear chil- 
dren enlightened." 



DISPLA Y. 43 

"We are not to expect miracles," answered Mrs. 
Leddenhurst ; '^ there are very few of them who can 
read their Bibles at present." 

^^Oh," replied Miss Pryke, '^ we must have faith, and 
nothing will be impossible ; but if I may speak my 
sentiments, Mrs. Leddenhurst," said she, now resolving 
to cast off the fear of man, " I do not wonder that 
our labors are not blessed ; and I don't believe they 
ever will be while we have so many people of the 
world amongst us. What can be expected from such 
poor, dear, deluded, young creatures ! and what an 
example to set before these dear children, Mrs. Led- 
denhurst ! " 

Here Susannah Davy ventured to remark, that '^ per- 
haps their attendance at the school might be made 
useful to the young ladies ; she had heard of such 
instances, and thought it would be a great pity to dis- 
courage them." 

To this Mrs. Leddenhurst assented ; and observed, 
that " so far from disapproving of their assistance, she 
lamented that no other ladies had joined them : she 
knew not by what authority they should be justified in 
forbidding any, who were wiUing to unite in a good 
work ; " and silenced, but not satisfied. Miss Pryke by 
adding that ^^ there was nothing in the character or 
conduct of these ladies that, in her opinion, disquali- 
fied them for the task they were at present required to 
perform." 

The conversation ended here ; for Miss Pryke was 
not the kind of person with whom they chose to enter 
into a further debate. She could not, however, be 
more truly concerned for the religious welfare of the 
children than they were. The grand object of all their 
exertions, and of which they never lost sight, was to 
train them for heaven; and they steadily pursued 
those methods,' which, in their opinions, were most 
likely to promote this end. They did not attempt to 



44 DISPLA V. 

feed them with ^' strong meat/' but with " milk/* be- 
cause they were " babes ; " and communicated the 
simple ideas they could comprehend, in plain lan- 
guage, and short sentences, such as they might easily 
attend to and remember. They knew that most 
children will not listen to a long discourse, however 
excellent ; but that their attention may be excited by 
a short, striking, personal address. 

Such slow and simple methods did not satisfy Miss 
Pryke's zeal for the conversion of her pupils. Not 
considering the usual course of divine proceeding in 
spiritual, as well as in natural things, she expected to 
sow and reap at the same time. But instances of 
Sunday-school children's appearing seriously impressed 
are rare, and, generally speaking, doubtful; though 
there have been hopeful exceptions. At any rate, 
teachers may be satisfied with imparting that knowl- 
edge, and forming those habits, which are so frequent- 
ly followed in after life by the divine blessing. 



CHAPTER VI. 

In the meantime Emily's friends witnessed with 
great pleasure the hopeful, though gradual change that 
appeared to be taking place in her mind. These 
friends could make allowances for the prejudices of 
education, the influence of early habits, and the 
various disadvantages which must attend the dawnings 
of religion in those who have not been taught to fear 
God from their youth. 

They were pleased to observe in her a deHcacy of 
conscience which made her extremely guarded in 
conversing on the subject, lest she should be led to 
express more than she felt. Without sincerity she saw 



DISPLA Y. 45 

that religion is but a name, and without earnestness, 
a shadow. 

As soon as she began reading the Bible with at- 
tention and prayer, she perceived that she had never 
before read it to purpose. She was surprised that she 
had often passed over the same passages which now 
struck her so forcibly, with such total inattention to 
their obvious meaning. She began to feel that ^' one 
thing IS needful ; " that the grand business of life, and 
that to which all others must be secondary, is to pre- 
pare for the hfe to come. Of the necessity and nature 
of this preparation she became increasingly conscious 
the more she thought of God, and of the nature of 
heavenly happiness. She was convinced that "His 
presence could not be fulness of joy " to any but those 
who are, like Him, holy and spiritual. When she 
compared the state of mind which the Scriptures call 
"meetness for heaven " with the vanity and earthliness 
of her present taste and pleasures, and with the distaste 
she felt to those that are wholly spiritual, she began to 
understand what is meant by being "born again," and 
to feel the necessity of it ; although her ideas of the 
way in which this change must be produced were still 
indistinct and uncertain. 

She had bowed at the name of Jesus, and spoken of 
Him, and heard Him spoken of as "our Saviour," and 
"our blessed Saviour;" but with notions the most 
vague, and feelings the most indifferent. But when 
she began to regard Him as a Saviour from sin and 
misery, as the Friend of sinners^ a living and present 
Friend, and to hope that He might be hers. His being 
and His character appeared an astonishing reality, and 
it seemed to her as though she had never heard of 
Him before. 

At first Emily set about becoming a Christian with 
the same expectation of success as she would have ap- 
plied herself to a language or a science. She saw that 



46 DISPLA V. 

she had it all to learn, and she thought there was 
nothing to be done but to learn it. She soon, how- 
ever, began to experience some of the difficulties 
which will be encountered by all who are in earnest. 
She was sincerely asking, ^' What must I do to inherit 
eternal life?" But, like him who once "went away 
sorrowful," Emily found herself unwilhng to make that 
entire surrender of the heart to God which he requires, 
and without which religion is but an irksome bondage, 
a fruitless effort to compromise between God and the 
world. She complained of a secret reluctance and 
disinclination to serious thought and engagements, and 
of a disproportionate interest in her own pursuits and 
pleasures. She sometimes expressed a fear to Miss 
Weston, that her solicitude about religion arose more 
from a dread of. the consequences of neglecting it, 
than from a desire towards it for its own sake. 

To these complaints her friend listened with sym- 
pathy, and administered such encouragements as were 
calculated, not to make her easy and satisfied with her 
present attainments, but to stimulate her to persever- 
ance and diligence. She explained to her that these 
or similar obstacles ever oppose the entrance of real 
religion to the human heart ; that all are naturally 
indisposed to embrace it ; but that those who feel and 
lament this indisposition have every encouragement to 
expect assistance. 

'"Strength," said she, "is promised to those, and 
those only, who are sensible of weakness ; who, ac- 
knowledging with deep humility and poverty of spirit 
their mental impotence, are willing to receive help of 
God." 

" That change of heart which consists in new dis- 
positions and affections, new pursuits and pleasures, 
new apprehensions of things unseen, and without 
which heaven could not be happiness, is," she said, 
" the immediate operation of the Spirit of God. It is 



DISPLAY. . 47 

that for which of ourselves we are absolutely insuffi- 
cient. We must not, however," continued Miss Wes- 
ton, ^' expect this assistance, unless we earnestly and 
constantly seek it. ' Ask^ and ye shall receive ; ' this 
is the invariable condition. And, Emily, we must 
watch as well as pray ; and diligently use every means 
that God has appointed for the promotion of religion 
in the soul ; never relaxing from that strict system of 
mental disciphne in which Christian self-denial chiefly 
consists. It is to those who do the will of God that 
the promise is offered." 

While Miss W^eston was thus continually performing 
the noblest offices of human friendship, Emily's love 
for her became increasingly ardent ; for she assumed 
no authority nor superiority in advising her : her man- 
ner was so humble and affectionate, and displayed at 
once such a delicate consideration of her feelings, and 
anxious solicitude for her happiness, that Emily's 
heart melted with grateful affection. 

It has been said that there was nothing so dry, so 
difficult, nor so wholly foreign to her real inclinations, 
that Elizabeth would not have set herself about, if it 
has been recommended — or rather, likely to recom- 
mend her at Stokely. It was therefore less surprising 
— as rehgion was the one thing most attended to and 
valued there — that Elizabeth must now also become 
religious, or at least appear to be so. 

Without premeditated and consummate hypocrisy, 
yet without sincerity, and wholly without earnestness, 
she professed to view the subject in a new light, and 
requested instruction upon it. She readily, and with- 
out gainsaying, acquiesced in new opinions : to many 
she might have appeared a more hopeful learner than 
Emily. But surely there can be no bondage so irk- 
some, no drudgery so base, as counterfeiting, or from 
any mistake falling short of, that character which, when 
genuine, brings with it freedom and independence, 
pleasantness and peace. 



48 DISPLA V. , 

Although they found it a difficult task to converse 
on the subject with Elizabeth, no pains were spared to 
give her right views, and to excite in her mind a real 
concern about it. She assented readily to everything 
that was said ; believed whatever was stated ; felt all 
that was described — and more ; but they could not 
feel satisfied with her professions. 

Indeed, the manner in which the Christian character 
was described and exemplified at Stokely rendered it 
so difficult of imitation, — there was so little credit to 
be gained by mere outward appearances or particular 
expressions, while so much stress was laid upon sin- 
cerity, humility, and spirituality of mind, that Elizabeth 
soon began to feel the support of her new professions 
almost intolerably irksome, and almost hopelessly 
difficult : perhaps she might have abandoned the 
attempt altogether, if she had not accidentally dis- 
covered a style of religious profession far easier of 
attainment. 

Miss Pryke was confirmed in her suspicions of the 
unsoundness of the new family by what had lately 
passed, and she attended the next Sunday, determined 
to make redoubled efforts at enlightening the school. 
The instructions she addressed to the children were 
indeed principally aimed at the teachers.; and Eliza- 
beth's form being next to Miss Pryke's, she could not 
avoid hearing a great deal of it. She listened to her 
harangue, partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire 
of becoming familiar with a language which she wished 
to adopt. Perceiving from the whole strain of it that 
it would be comparatively easy to be very religious after 
Miss Pryke's manner, she determined to gain the notice 
and good opinion of this enlightened teacher. So, as 
soon as the school was dismissed, Elizabeth made up to 
Miss Pryke, and shaking her by the hand, with a particu- 
lar kind of smile, said, " I am sure I have reason to 
thank you for what I have heard this morning." 



DISPLA K 49 

Miss Pryke started at this very unexpected address : 
however, it put her prejudices to flight in an instant. 
Notwithstanding her jealousy of the gay or genteel, she 
was doubly gratified at having proselyted one of this 
class. Her answer was studiously seasoned with spirit- 
ual flattery \ but that and the succeeding conversation 
are not recorded, because it would be painful, and 
equally offensive to right feeling and good taste, to 
repeat a discourse in which expressions might occur, 
which to use professedly in earnest, but without sincer- 
ity and reverence, is the worst kind of profaneness. 

The conversation was renewed in the afternoon, and 
on the following Sunday : and Elizabeth was invited to 
join a private meeting which was held once a week 
in Miss Pryke 's parlor. She felt rather ashamed of 
accepting this invitation, and scarcely knew why she 
wished it ; however, as it was winter, she stole in one 
evening. 

Her entrance seemed for a time to distract the 
devotions of the little assembly, the appearance of a gay 
lady was so very unusual among them. There was 
some bustle in dumb show, to make way for, and 
accommodate her ; and she was beckoned and jostled, 
and pointed, and pushed to the vacant arm-chair by the 
fire-side. But Elizabeth with gracious bows declined 
this distinction, and seated herself — for she was fond 
of contrast — on one of the forms, between a very old 
woman and a spare squalid-looking man, whose head 
was tied up with a blue handkerchief. EHzabeth's lace 
veil floated on his shabby shoulder, and her rich India 
shawl spread over the old woman's red cloak, who shook 
it off respectfully ; while the good man squeezed him- 
self up to his narrowest compass, and drove at his next 
neighbor to make more room. 

When the service was over, Miss Pryke made up to 
Elizabeth and shook hands with her ; and so did two 
or three others, saying a word or two expressive of 

4 



so DISPLA V. 

their pleasure at seeing her there : and there were some 
present whose hearts glowed with true Christian benevo- 
lence when they did so. 



CHAPTER VII. 

By this time Emily, without having studied for it, 
had gained the love and esteem of the whole family at 
Stokely. Elizabeth saw that she had ; and notwith- 
standing their impartial attentions — for none but the 
children appeared the fondest of Emily — Elizabeth 
perceived that she was not loved, esteemed, and, what 
to her was still worse, not admired so much. It was a 
long time before she could believe this ; but when she 
did, when she felt quite sure of it, her mortification 
began to produce a degree of indifference to their 
opinion, and distaste to their company ; and she won- 
dered why she had taken so much pains to please 
them. 

From this time her visits to Stokely became gradu- 
ally less frequent ; and as she felt Emily to be no longer 
a foil, but a rival, her company also became irksome 
to her ; and although her professions when they met 
were the same as ever, Emily was hurt to perceive 
that Elizabeth shunned her society. 

Her connection with Miss Pryke tended much to 
promote this coolness ; for it gave Elizabeth another 
object and other engagements, — and such as were not 
very compatible with her intercourse with the Ledden- 
hursts. She continued to attend the weekly meeting 
at Miss Pryke's, — for vanity is seldom dainty, — and 
the notice she attracted, and the distinction she ob- 
tained even there^ were agreeable to her. Her manners, 
her accomplishments, her dress, excited little attention 



DISPLA V. 5 1 

among persons of her own rank, who could display 
much the same ; but in all these respects she stood 
unrivalled in Miss Pryke's parlor, and they obtained 
for her that consideration which she loved. 

Well had it been for Elizabeth if she had made as 
good use of these meetings as many, as most of those 
did, who frequented them. But unfortunately, she only 
imitated what was not worth imitating. She soon ac- 
quired a facility in using the phrases current among 
these poor people, and even caught something of their 
particular looks and gestures. These peculiarities, 
which, while they too easily pass among some as signs 
of grace, among others, are with as little discrimination 
concluded to be the symptoms of a canting hypocrisy ; 
but whicn are, in fact, often, most often, the genuine 
and natural expressions of earnest sincerity, uncontrolled 
by the delicacy which teaches the educated to conceal 
their feelings. 

But, truly, the least agreeable excrescences which are 
produced by earnestness in religion, are more reasona- 
ble, and ought to be less offensive, than that finished 
air of indifference which too often characterizes politer 
worshippers. 

When a poor Chi'istian turns the key upon her com- 
fortless dwelling, and sets off with her lantern and her 
Bible, to spend an hour in thinking and hearing of a 
place where there will be no more want, it is not sur- 
prising if she be more deeply interested and affected 
than those, who leave a comfortable drawing-room, an 
intelligent circle, or some interesting pursuit, and whose 
"joy unspeakable " it costs them, perhaps, little effort 
to conceal. 

But it is best to avoid a/l extremes ; and those good 
people who are prone to make stic/i " outward and 
visible signs of their inward and spiritual graces," would 
do well to observe the conduct which Jesus Christ 
seems plainly to recommend on this subject, — that 



52 DISPLAY. 

decent composure of countenance and manner, which, 
while we are exposed to the eyes of others, answers the 
purpose of *^ entering into the closet, and shutting to 
the door.'* " Be ye not as the hypocrites, of a sad 
countenance ; for they disfigure their faces that they 
may appear unto men to fast : but anoint thy head, 
and wash thy face," &c. When the repenting pub- 
lican ^' smote upon his breast," he was not with the 
throng of worshippers in the Temple, but standing " afar 
off." 

Elizabeth, however, found herself in high esteem 
among this little company, especially with Miss Pryke, 
by whom she was studiously flattered and extolled. 
She had little opposition to encounter at home, on ac- 
count of her new profession ; for her parents disliked 
trouble too much to persecute ! and Mrs. Palmer con- 
tented herself with exclaiming sometimes, when her 
daughter was setting off for the market-place, ** Bless 
me, Elizabeth, how can you make such a fool of your- 
self! " 

EKzabeth's fatlier and mother were people of the 
world in the most complete sense ; they were '^ lovers 
of pleasure, and not lovers of God." 

Mrs. Palmer was clever ; and had a vast deal of 
taste in laying out gardens, and fitting up rooms, and 
setting out dinners. Her grand object in life was, to 
enjoy herself; and her selfishness was refined, and 
perfect in its kind. She was a good wife, a kind 
mother, an obliging neighbor, as far as ever she could 
be consistently with this object, but no further. She 
had an easy, pleasing address ; and her politeness was 
so unremittingly attentive that it looked almost like 
friendship. Whatever did not demand any real sacri- 
fice of her own pleasure or convenience, was done, and 
done in the most obliging manner possible ; but really 
to deny herself for the sake of another, was a species of 
virtue which she left to be practised by such good sort 



DISPLAY. 53 

of people as chose it. To her it appeared foolishness ; 
especially as she could decline her services with such 
masterly adroitness, with such a gentle, sympathizing 
address, that the cold selfishness of her heart often 
escaped detection. 

Her feehngs were naturally violent; but she had 
such an extreme dislike of being uncomfortable, that 
she rarely suffered them to be very troublesome to her. 
When the news arrived that her only and darling son 
had died abroad of the yellow fever, many people 
thought she would not long survive the intelhgence. 
Her sorrow at first was ungovernable ; she said she 
should never have another happy hour. But it is 
easier to be distracted for a w^eek than to be sorrowful 
for life ; and Mrs. Palmer discovered surprisingly soon, 
that she was still in possession of all those good things 
on which her daily pleasure depended. She had no 
son, it was trae ; but she had her pleasant house, and 
handsome furniture ; luxurious fare, and a healthy ap- 
petite, a fine person and expensive ornaments. She 
could still w^alk, and ride, and visit, and see company ; 
and build her grotto, and attend her green- house, and 
arrange her cabinet ; so that she recovered her cheer- 
fulness rapidly. There was nothing in her mind with 
which sorrow could amalgamate^ it was an unwelcome 
and unintelligible foreigner. 

By her son's dying at a distance she was spared 
what were, to her, the most shocking circumstances 
attending such an event. 

Death, that one thing which the sceptic must be- 
lieve, and to which the worldly must submit, was 
that which she most disliked to think about ; and she 
studiously avoided whatever was likely to remind her of 
it. She shrunk from the survey of its gloomy appa- 
ratus ; and was really glad that all that part of the affair 
was transacted so far off as Jamaica. The opening of 
the family vault was a circumstance she particularly 



54 D ISP LA Y. 

dreaded ; that was a place she did not like to think of ; 
and still less to recollect that she must herself one day 
lie down in that dark chamber. Whenever the un- 
welcome thought was forced upon her, she instantly- 
recurred to the soundness of her constitution, and the 
vigorous means she used to preserve it. Besides 
which, she avoided perils by water and perils by land ; 
was the first to foresee evil and hide herself j and to 
flee from contagion and every form of danger, — thus, 
by a common but strange kind of deception, feeling 
as though to delay death were to escape it. 

She thought it prudent, however, to make some 
provision for the distant day ; and was, accordingly, 
constant at church, and charitable to the poor : by 
which means she concluded all . wpuld be safe, when- 
ever she should be under the absolute necessity of 
going to heaven. 

Mr. Palmer was a gentleman of ordinary capacity; 
but he could hunt, and shoot, and joke, and swear; 
and contrived to do very well without thinking : for 
with these accomphshments, a good table, and well 
stocked cellar, he wanted neither for friends nor repu- 
tation. 

It suited the taste both of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer to 
live expensively. Whether it suited their income as 
well, they did not often inquire ; for they avoided 
everything that was disagreeable, and to them it was 
disagreeable to think about debts. and prudence. 

A short time after Elizabeth had begun to estrange 
herself from Stokely, Mrs. Leddenhurst received a 
parcel of books from her, which they had lent her; 
with a note thanking her for the loan of them, but 
declining the offer of others that had been proposed ; 
adding, that '' studies of this nature were too apt to 
encroach upon pursuits of higher importance." 

"This is very true indeed," said Mrs. Leddenhurst, 
when she had read the note ; " and I wish Elizabeth 



DISPLAY, 55 

may now find herself more disposed to engage in pur- 
suits of higher importance. But I am afraid she is 
making a mistake ; at least I should question whether 
she will really employ the time she would have spent 
in reading these books to more advantage. I have 
known some good people," continued she, "who would 
scruple taking up a volume of elegant literature, or of 
philosophy or science, alleging that they had not the 
time to spare from better reading, whose consciences 
would yet allow them to spend months in working a 
cap or a handkerchief; and who were in the habit of 
employing themselves in such domestic affairs as, in 
their circumstances, could be as well done by their 
servants." 

" Elizabeth has learned this from some of her new 
friends," said Mr. Leddenhurst. " It is no uncommon 
thing for persons of low education and contracted views 
to entertain this kind of jealousy against general infor- 
mation, — indeed, most things which their own circum- 
stances will not permit them to enjoy. Whatever they 
have not knowledge to understand, or taste to appre- 
ciate, they are apt to consider as inconsistent with real 
piety. Many very good people are subject to this 
prejudice, and are apt to consider as dangerous symp- 
toms of conformity to the world, pursuits and refine- 
ments which a little more knowledge, and a little more 
liberality, would convince them are, in their way and 
in their place, aids and ornaments to Christianity." 

" The opposite extreme is, however, so much the 
most general and the most abused," said Miss Weston, 
" and this is so much the safest of the two, that one 
had need be cautious in censuring it. Where one 
person abstains from general reading for conscience', 
or rather for prejudice' sake, how many are there who 
read bad books without any regard to conscience, and 
who are prejudiced against good ones ! " 

The Leddenhursts were sorry that Elizabeth had 



5 6 DISPLAY, 

withdrawn herself so much from their society; espe- 
cially as they did not feel perfectly satisfied with the 
present style of her professions. They did not, how- 
ever, venture to form so decided a judgment concerning 
her as was declared of Emily by some of the good 
people at Miss Pryke's. 

Emily had no ambition to gain their favor ; indeed 
she paid too little regard to public opinion ; and her 
dread and abhorrence of imfelt professions led her to 
avoid those very appearances and expressions which 
might have induced them to form a more favorable 
judgment of her piety. They shook their heads at her 
youthful sprightliness ; while Elizabeth was pronounced 
'' a gracious and growing character." 



CHAPTER VIII. 

One spring evening, Elizabeth had taken her accus- 
tomed seat by the side of Miss Pryke's counter. 
While they were talking, she sometimes put aside the 
shawls and ribbons that blinded the window with the 
end of her parasol, to see what was passing without. 
But there was nothing to be seen except some children 
at play in the middle of the square, and Mr. Preston 
standing in his usual position at his shop-door, and 
old Mr. and Mrs. Parsonson returning from their eve- 
ning walk, and the setting sun shining on the old 
market- cross, just as it did a hundred years ago. 

It was seldom that anything happened to disturb 
the tranquillity of this remote place, — except that a 
show, or a conjurer, or a company of strolling players, 
sometimes stopped to amuse the inhabitants for a 
night or two, in their way to the county town. But 
suddenly their conversation was interrupted by the 



DISPLAY. 57 

sound of distant music. Elizabeth started from her 
seat, exclaiming : 

" Hark, Miss Pryke ! what can that be ? The bass- 
drum, I declare ! " 

For now it came nearer and louder ; and presently 
a full band, in gay green and white, playing a lively 
march, followed by the regiment, and all the boys and 
girls of Broadisham, crowded into the market-place. 

*' How partial I am to military music ! " said Eliz- 
abeth, as she stood nodding to the tune ; while rank 
after rank passed the shop door. 

This was a lively evening for Broadisham ; it was all 
bustle and animation. Maids and mistresses, masters 
and men, appeared at their doors and windows. 
Trains of soldiers, stooping their tall caps, were seen 
entering the lowly doors of the Angel, the King's 
Arms, and the Red Lion ; while a party of officers 
assembled before the gate of the new Hotel. 



The teachers of the Sunday school had been em- 
ployed for some time past in making a set of frocks 
and tippets for the children ; and as soon as it was 
completed, an evening was appointed for them to meet 
in the school-room to receive them. This evening 
being arrived, and the parties assembled, they were 
about to proceed to business, when Emily proposed 
waiting a little while for Elizabeth, who was not come ; 
but at last they were obliged to go on without her. 

It was a pleasant task to take off the patched, worn, 
and torn, and fit on these new comfortable dresses. 
The whole school soon appeared in a neat livery ; and 
while the children in stiff attitudes kept surveying 
themselves and each other, and looking almost as 
much ashamed as they were pleased, the ladies, not 
less pleased, stood beholding the happy crowd. Em- 



58 DISPLAY, 

ily enjoyed it exceedingly, as with great animation she 
stood rolling up the old tattered garments, and admir- 
ing the new. 

It was nearly dark before the children were dis- 
missed; and just as the ladies were coming down 
stairs, they observed a light dressy figure making her 
way rather impatiently through the crowd of children 
that was issuing from the school-room door. Till the 
moment she passed, when the light from a chemist's 
shop shone full upon her, they did not discover that it 
was Elizabeth. Emily spoke to her, but she was look- 
ing another way, and appeared not to observe any of 
the party, who stood gazing at her as she passed 
swiftly on. 

^' She is going to this officers' ball," said Mrs. Led- 
denhurst ; " there is her mother, I see, just before." 

" I am surprised at that ! " said Emily. 

"And I am concerned," said Miss Weston. 

" I am concerned, but not much surprised," said 
Mrs. Leddenhurst. 

" But I have heard her say so much against those 
amusements lately," added Emily. 

" I should have been more surprised if she had said 
less," said Mrs. Leddenhurst ; " but we will not con- 
demn her ; perhaps she is going against her incli- 
nations. I only fear that if she once begin to break 
through the restraints she has lately imposed upon 
herself, she will return to these things with increased 
avidity." 

As they passed the assembly-room they saw the 
chandeliers were ht up ; the dancing had commenced ; 
and they could distinctly hear the sound of the 
inspiring viol. Emily had trod many a measure there, 
and she could scarcely forbear stepping to the well- 
known air. She was really fond of dancing ; but the 
company, the dissipation, were never very agreeable to 
her. She had declined attending this ball without 



DISPLAY, 59 

regret. Mr. and Mrs. Leddenhurst had explained to 
her their reasons for abstaining from these diversions 
in a way that convinced her of their propriety. With- 
out shaking their heads, and speaking of dancing as 
containing in itself some mysterious evil which could 
not be explained, they simply stated the difficulty, if not 
impossibility, of preserving that temper of mind in 
such assemblies which a Christian should always main- 
tain; that they were universally allowed to indispose 
the mind to serious reflection and serious engagements, 
and to expose young and old to many temptations. 

The offence it would inevitably give to many pious 
people, vAiO"^^ prejudices even we are expressly enjoined 
to -consult, was mentioned as another reason, and a 
sufficient one, for abstaining, independent of all other 
considerations. 

"And if resigning such paltry pleasures as these," 
said Mr. Leddenhurst, "be considered too great a 
sacrifice to be made for Christ's sake, what are we to 
understand by forsaking all to follow him? But 
even," said he, " if I could attend these places without 
any injury to my own mind, or any offence to the 
minds of others, I really should not feel disposed to go 
dancing through a world so full of sin and misery as 
this is." 

Emily, however, needed not many arguments on 
this subject. When she began to /^^/ religion, and to 
think of eternity, she did not want to dance, nor to 
mix much with people whose thoughts are all about 
this world ; yet she had never before been so uniform- 
ly cheerful as now. She returned to Stokely with her 
friends, and spent the remainder of the evening so 
pleasantly with them, that she quite forgot the assem- 
bly-room. 

How it happened that Elizabeth was at the officers' 
ball, must now be explained. 

One of these officers was an old acquaintance of her 



6o DISPLA V. 

father*s; and he, with all the others, was invited to 
dine at his house. 

Elizabeth had not quite finished dressing herself for 
this occasion, when she was called down stairs to Miss 
Pryke, who waited to speak with her in the hall. 

"I did not hear till just now," said she, glancing as 
she spoke at the various parts of Elizabeth's dress, '' I 
did not hear till this minute, that all these people were 
coming to dinner here to-day ; and as I was convinced 
you would not wish to be in the way of it, I came to 
request the pleasure of your company to spend the day 
at ours, and I hope — " 

"Thank you," said Elizabeth, "you're extremely 
good, I 'm sure, and I should enjoy it exceedingly, for, 
you know, it is excessively distressing to me ; but, 
indeed, I 'm afraid I could not get off anyhow, for, you 
see, my mother would be so much displeased. So 
thank you, good morning ^^^ said she, withdrawing rather 
abruptly, and leaving Miss Pryke not quite satisfied 
with the manner in which her invitation had been 
declined. 

There are ways of being irresistible without flirting : 
and Elizabeth did not find it requisite on the present 
occasion to throw off entirely the character she had 
assumed. When she made her appearance, there was 
a look of childish simplicity and timidity, with a becom- 
ing expression of being distressed at the presence of 
so many gentlemen. Hastening to take refuge among 
the ladies, she seated herself beside Miss Oliver, who 
was one of the party, with whom she began chatting 
in an under voice, with playful familiarity. 

During dinner the subject of the proposed ball was 
introduced, and Lieutenant Robinson, a young officer 
who sat next Elizabeth, began talking about the pleas- 
ure of meeting her there. But Elizabeth acknowledged 
she was not partial to these amusements. " There was 
too much publicity in them," she said, " to suit her taste : 



DISPLAY. 6 1 

she was aware she exposed herself to the imputation of 
singularity, but, in fact, she preferred pleasures of a more 
private and domestic kind." While the lieutenant was 
expressing his grief, surprise, concern, and astonish- 
ment at this declaration, a lady who sat opposite 
exclaimed, 

" Oh, we must not expect to see Miss Palmer at the 
assembly-room ; she has quite forsaken our innocent 
amusements since she has been such a saint." 

At the word saint all the company laughed ; laughed 
rather more than Ehzabeth liked, and dreading further 
exposure, she joined in the laugh, saying, 

" Oh, pray indeed, you must not call me a saint ! I 
only wish I was more of one than I am." 

^' But, Mrs. Palmer, ma'am," said the Heutenant, 
appealing to her mother, '' Miss Palmer surely cannot 
be serious ; let me beg of you to intercede with her, 
that we may have the honor of her company to-morrow 
evening." 

" I shall certainly endeavor to prevail with Elizabeth/' 
said her mother. 

" There," said he, " Mrs. Palmer takes our part ; 
you will not refuse her, I 'm convinced." 

" If my mother wishes it, certainly not," replied 
Elizabeth, with a submissive smile. 

Thus she had promised to go to the ball before she 
recollected her pre- engagement at the school-room ; 
and she could not break her promise. Besides which, 
in the course of this evening Lieutenant Robinson had 
rendered himself so agreeable that all prior considera- 
tions rapidly gave way. 

When she was alone in her room that night, she 
began to speculate upon the posture of affairs. She 
thought for a moment of the opinion that would be 
entertained of her by her friends in the market-place 
for going to the ball ; and she thought for two moments 
of what would be thought of it at Stokely. But Eliza- 



62 DISPLAY. 

beth now found herself engaged in business of impor- 
tance, to which trifles must*be sacrificed ; and the tide 
that was plunging her back into a world from which her 
heart had never been alienated was but feebly stemmed 
by principle or conscience. 

Elizabeth had probably been deceiving herself as 
well as others. They who are little accustomed to 
self-examination, who look more at actions than at 
motives, may go a great w^ay in false professions with- 
out deliberate hypocrisy. Perhaps she was herself sur- 
prised to find how easily her scruples were overcome, 
and her professions laid aside. She felt less dread in 
doing so, than shame at the idea of their being dis- 
covered. Her mind was not indeed at this time in a 
state for making cool calculations. 

Religion, friends, reputation, were hastily thrown 
into one scale and Lieutenant Robinson's gold epaulette 
into the other — and thus the point was decided. 



CHAPTER IX. 

For more than a fortnight after the night of the ball, 
Elizabeth had not been seen by any of her old friends. 
At length Emily was surprised by a call from her ; and 
still more, by her proposing to accompany her that 
evening on a visit to Stokely. 

" It is so long since I have been," said she, ^^that 
they must think me quite inattentive ; and if you would 
like to go this evening, I shall be happy to attend 
you.'* 

Emily readily agreed to this unexpected proposal. 
Indeed she was very glad of it; especially as she 
remarked a certain thoughtfulness and pensiveness in 
Elizabeth's manner, which made her hope she was 
sorry for what had lately occurred. 



DISPLA Y. dz 

During their walk Elizabeth was unusually silent and 
absent; and she continued so after their arrival, 
although she had received the same free and cordial 
welcome as usual. Many ineffectual efforts were made 
to enliven her ; and at last Mrs. Leddenhurst — who 
had remarked that Elizabeth liked to be asked to play 
— proposed that she should sit down to the instru- 
ment. 

"What shall I play?" said she, turning over the 
leaves of the music-book. '^ ^ The Soldier's Adieu,' — 
that 's a sweet thing ; shall I try it? " 

"If you please," said Mrs. Leddenhurst. 

Elizabeth played and began to sing ; but stopped 
presently, as though unable to proceed. 

" Why don't you sing? " said Emily. " Do sing 1 " 

" I cannot sing very well this evening," said she, 
looking distressed ; and added aside to Emily, " You 
must ?iot ask me to sing those words." 

After attempting a few more notes, she stopped 
again, and leaning back upon Emily begged for air 
and water. 

The window was thrown open, and Mr. Ledden- 
hurst led her to the sofa ; where, after a few hysterical 
sighs, she found herself a little better. 

" Emily, my love, lend me your arm," said she, 
rising; "I shall soon recover in the air; it's nothing 
but the heat of the room." 

So Emily led her friend to an arbor in the garden ; 
where, as soon as they were seated, Elizabeth leaned 
her head upon Emily's neck, and burst into tears. 

"What is the matter?" said Emily. "Are you ill, 
dear Elizabeth ; or has anything grieved you? " 

She continued to weep and sigh, but made no 
answer. 

" I am sure," resumed Emily, after a short silence, 
" I do not desire to know anything you wish to con- 
ceal ; but if I can guess why you are so unhappy — '* 



64 DISPLAY. 

" Oh, then, I have betrayed myself ! '' exclaimed 
Elizabeth, hiding her face. 

'' Betrayed yourself ! what do you mean, Elizabeth ? 
I only thought that perhaps you were sorry about 
going to the ball and giving up the Sunday school; 
and if—" 

" Oh, my dear ! " interrupted Elizabeth, " you do 
not know, you cannot guess, it is quite impossible that 
any one should ever discover the cause of my uneasi- 
ness. That must ever remain a secret in my own 
bosom." 

'' Then certainly I shall not inquire," said Emily. 
"Will you like to walk?" 

" No, stay a moment ; forgive my weakness, Emily, 
and let me talk to you about my sorrow, although I 
cannot reveal the source of it." 

" As long as you please, but take care, or I shall find 
it out." 

" Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear me," said Elizabeth. 

" Dear me," said Emily. 

" Do you think Mr. Leddenhurst observed the words 
of that song?" inquired Elizabeth. 

" I can't tell, indeed," replied Emily. . 

" How silly it was of me to attempt to play it ! " 

"Why so?" 

Elizabeth looked down, and sighed. 

" How beautifully the sun is setting ! " observed 
Emily, who found it difficult to maintain her part of 
the conversation. 

At length EHzabeth broke another silence by saying, 
" Emily, I know I may confide in you ; will you prom- 
ise faithfully never to betray me, if I tell you all my 
heart?" 

"Yes, you may depend upon me," said Emily. 

" But how shall I confess my weakness ? " resumed 
Elizabeth ; " cannot you guess ? — Oh, Emily, if you 
had ever loved you would know how to feel. for me ! " 



DISPLAY, 65 

" Dear ! are you in love ? " said Emily, simply. 

'' Hush ! my dear creature ! " cried Elizabeth ; '' but 
what/' continued she, in a low voice, "' what but this 
fatal attachment could have led me to act as I have 
done?" 

" Do you know now," said Emily, after running over 
in her mind the list of all the beaux and bachelors she 
knew, " do you know I am entirely at a loss to think 
who you can be at all attached to." 

" Oh, my dear, that fatal regiment ! " cried Elizabeth. 

''Already ! " said Emily. 

"You do not know him, or you would not be 
surprised." 

"Is it that tall, brave-looking officer that I have seen 
walking with your father?" 

"No, that's Captain Scot. He is not particularly 
tall ; you 'd not be so much struck at first sight : but 
indeed he has paid me such attentions ! though I know 
he is only flirting with me," said Elizabeth, sighing. 

" Then indeed, Elizabeth, I hope you will endeavor 
to overcome it," said Emily, "and as it is so very 
recent, I should think with a little effort — " 

" A little effort ! O Emily, you know nothing about 
it ; never, never ; it cannot be overcome 1 " 

" How are you now, Elizabeth ? " said Miss Weston, 
who appeared at that instant. 

"Thank you, better," said Elizabeth, starting. 

" She is a great deal better," said Emily, blushing. 

" I feared you would stay too long in the evening 
air," said Miss Weston ; and, supported by her tvyo 
friends, Elizabeth returned to the company. 

Elizabeth had long wished for an opportunity of 
being a heroine ; for which nothing had been wanting 
but a hero ; and this being so unexpectedly supplied, 
it was no wonder that, mistaking ambition of conquest, 
and partiality to scarlet cloth, for love, she should 
presently exhibit its interesting phenomena. 

S 



66 DISPLAY. 

She had not, however, been guilty of any misrepre- 
sentation in saying that Lieutenant Robinson had " paid 
her such attentions ; " for this young man had fallen in 
love with Ehzabeth ; and a short time after this arbor 
scene, and after about a month's acquaintance, — dur- 
ing which time he spent every morning at her work- 
table, and every evening in her company, — he made 
his proposals to her father, which meeting with the 
approbation of the whole family, he became her ac- 
knowledged lover. 

Elizabeth would have been more gratified at making 
a conquest of a man of sense ; and she would have 
preferred altogether having a sensible man for her hus- 
band. However, she had made a conquest, and she 
was going to be Mrs. Robi7ison. 

Sometimes, indeed, she felt a little dissatisfied dur- 
ing the morning tete-a-tete with the strain of her lover's 
conversation : for it was surprising what silly things he 
would say rather than not say anything : but then Eliz- 
abeth thought it was because he was in love ; and any 
such unfavorable impression generally wore off during 
evening parade, when the lieutenant was manoeuvring 
at the head of his company ; and always while the band 
was playing she was sure she was in love with him. 

After evening parade the band was ordered to play 
for an hour in the market-place, for the amusement of 
the ladies, who were assembled on these occasions, and 
promenaded up and down the square. 

It was then that Elizabeth enjoyed the eclat of her 
conquest. While she appeared laughing and talking 
with her lover among her less fortunate acquaintance, 
who were walking about in unattended rows, her pur- 
pose was served as well, or better, by a blockhead than 
a genius. 

Sometimes she would stop awhile to chat with them, 
and her nods and bows were dealt about lavishly, and 
with unwonted cordiahty, to everybody. 



DISPLAY. 67 

"Who are all these?" said Lieutenant Robinson, one 
of these evenings, as a new party entered the square. 

"Gracious me! all the Leddenhursts," said Eliza- 
beth, who would rather have avoided the interview. 

"x-lnd who is that pretty figure in the cottage bon- 
net? " said he^ as they came nearer. 

" It 's only Emily Grey," answered Elizabeth. 

"' How d 'ye do, how d 'ye do, Emily, my love, how 
are you?" said she, addressing her friends as they 
advanced. 

She now introduced Lieutenant Robinson, and 
would have passed on, but they all seemed disposed to 
stay and chat, and Mr. Leddenhurst entered into con- 
versation with her lover. 

Never had he appeared to so much disadvantage to 
Elizabeth as at this moment ; now that she saw him, 
not for herself, but for them, — saw him, too, by the 
side of Mr. Leddenhurst. 

Her hand had fallen from his arm as they approached, 
and she now began talking as fast as possible to Mrs. 
Leddenhurst, Miss Weston, and Emily, to divert their 
attention from the conversation that was passing be- 
tween the gentlemen. 

Emily, who had raised her expectations rather un- 
reasonably high, of a being whom it was possible to 
love in three weeks, was nearly guilty of the rudeness 
of starting when she first beheld the mean figure, and 
fiercely vacant countenance, of her friend's admirer. 

"Is it possible ! " said she to herself, and she looked 
about to avoid meeting the eye of Elizabeth. 

In the meantime the lieutenant continued running on 
in his usual style of sprightly dulness to Mr. Ledden- 
hurst, who stood looking down upon him with an eye 
of keen but candid observation. 

" What a monstrous curious old cross you 've got 
here ! " said he, staring up, and tapping it with his 
cane. 



68 DISPLAY. 

" Well, good night ! '' said Elizabeth ; " it 's cold 
standing in the wind ; " and she walked off with her 
lover, feehng more uncomfortable than ladies always 
do when they walk off with their lovers. 

When they reached home, Elizabeth threw herself 
on the sofa, saying, 

" Don't talk to me ; I am tired this evening, Mr. 
Robinson.'' 

Thus repulsed, he walked backwards and forwards in 
the room for some time, half whistling; till, stopping 
on a sudden, he exclaimed, 

" That Emily what d' ye call her is a confounded 
pretty girl ! " 

"Do you think so?" said Elizabeth, rousing up; 
^' well, she does look rather pretty in her bonnet." 

Here the lieutenant resumed his walk and his whistle ; 
but the remark had a fortunate effect upon EHzabeth. 
The momentary jealousy made him appear surpris- 
ingly more agreeable, and worth securing : and while 
she sat watching him as he paced up and down in the 
dusk, she said to herself, " He whistles uncommonly 
well ! " 

Very soon after Lieutenant Robinson's proposals 
were accepted, the regiment, which was quartered at 
Broadisham, received orders to remove to a distant 
county. It was expected they would march in six 
weeks ; and as both he and Mr. Palmer were anxious 
to conclude the affair as soon as possible, it was agreed 
that the marriage should take place accordingly. 

Elizabeth, therefore, suddenly plunged in the agree- 
able confusion of preparation, had little leisure to study 
the character and qualifications of her intended husband. 
He was but one of a great variety of important con- 
cerns that now distracted her attention. Crapes and 
sarcenets, laces and jewels, trunks and riding- dresses^, 
her silver teapot, her satin workbag, and her scarlet 
beau, were objects of alternate and equal interest. 



DISPLA V. 69 

Wholly intent upon the edaf of her bridal, she had as 
little inclination as opportunity to look forward to the 
months and years when she would be a wife, but no 
longer a bride. 



CHAPTER X. 

About this time, Eleanor Jones, the invalid men- 
tioned early in this history, having lingered through 
a painful winter, died peacefully. Miss Weston and 
Emily had visited her frequently during her illness, 
and they were present at the last scene. 

Death, as personified and decorated by poetry, 
Emily had frequently contemplated ; but she was unac- 
quainted with the realities of a dying bed. 

The moment they entered her room, they perceived 
the altered expression of her countenance ; and al- 
though Emily had never seen it before, she saw it 
was deaf/i in her face. She felt the shock, but would 
not turn away ; " for if I cannot bear to see it, how 
shall I endure it? " thought she. 

Soon after they entered she was seized with a convul- 
sive spasm which lasted several minutes. 

'* Oh, see ! " said Emily, ^' cannot we help her? Is 
there nothing that would give her any relief? " 

" Nothing, my dear," said Miss Weston, softly; " it 
will soon be over." 

^^ Dear, dear creature ! " cried her distressed mother : 
'^ please God to release her ! for I cannot bear this ! " 

When the spasm was over, her features became 
composed, and she looked round upon them with an 
expression of joyful serenity. 

''These are only the struggles of nature," said Miss 
Weston ; ^ the sting of death is sin ; ' she does not 
feel that." 



70 DISPLA V. 

At this she smiled, and her lips moved, but they 
could not distinguish what was said. She then lay for 
some time quite tranquil. They watched her in silence, 
and at length perceived that she had ceased to breathe. 

Miss Weston led the mother down stairs ; while 
Emily remained fixed to the spot, gazing on the placid 
corpse. She looked round on the low, tattered cham- 
ber, and thought she should never again wish for the 
vanities of so short a life. " This is how they must all 
end," she thought; "and death would look just the 
same if this poor bed were a state canopy." It seemed 
but a moment3 not worth caring for, before she herself 
must He down by her side. 

Her contemplations were soon interrupted by the 
entrance of Miss Weston. 

" Come, Emily, my love," said she, " we can do 
nothing more here, but we may still comfort her poor 
mother." 

" I should like to stay longer," said Emily ; " I never 
saw death before ; how strange, and awful, and beautiful 
it is ! " 

"You have stayed long enough now," said her 
friend, and she led her out of the chamber ; and as 
soon as they saw that the mourning mother had said 
and wept her utmost, they took leave, with many 
assurances of continued friendship. 

When they opened the cottage door, they found it 
was noonday, and bright sunshine. Emily had not 
shed a tear before, but they overflowed at the sight of 
the bright fields and clear blue sky. They walked on 
silently to the entrance of the town. 

" Had not we better go the back way ? You will 
not go through the town this morning, Miss Weston? " 
said Emily. 

" Why not, my dear? " 

"I always avoid it when I can," replied Emily, 
*^and just now especially." 



DISPLAY. 71 

^^Unfortunately I have an errand in the town/' said 
Miss Weston, ''at Mrs. Eve's." 

" At Mrs. Eve's ! " said Emily. 

They went on; and Emily was obliged to endure 
the sight of the shops and people, looking as busy as 
usual. 

Mrs. Eve's windows were set out with spring 
fashions ; and when they went in, they found Elizabeth, 
with her mother, and other ladies, making purchases, 
and examining the new assortment. 

" I was just wishing for you," said Elizabeth, " to 
give me your opinion of these sarcenets. Which 
should you prefer, Emily, this rose color, or the pale 
blue?" 

"They are both extremely pretty," said Miss Wes- 
ton, " but the blue, I think, is the most delicate." 

" I advise you to go up and see the millinery," said 
Mrs. Palmer to Miss Weston and Emily ; " and really 
you '11 be delighted. Mrs. Eve has some uncommonly 
pretty things come down, I assure you." 

'^ We have something quite new in flowers, ladies," 
said one of the young milliners, taking down a tempt- 
ing drawer. " That 's a sweet thing, ma'am ! " said 
she, holding up a quivering spray before Emily ; who, 
sickening at the sight, made her escape as soon as she 
could to the opposite counter, where Elizabeth still 
stood, wavering between the rose color and the blue. 

" Yes, Elizabeth," she said, " they are very pretty ; 
but we are just come from Eleanor Jones's, — and 
have seen her die." 

'' Die ! good gracious, have you ? She is gone at 
last, poor soul ! is she ? " said Elizabeth. '' Dear me ! " 
added she, perceiving that Emily expected her to say 
something more. 

"I wish you had been with us," said Emily; ''you 
cannot think what a striking scene it was. I think I 
shall not soon forget it." 



72 DISPLAY, 

" It must indeed be very affecting^ I should think," 
said Elizabeth, still glancing at the rival tints. 

'' I will walk back with you now, if you would wish 
to see her," continued Emily. "She is looking so 
placid and tranquil. Would you like to go? " 

** My dear, you must excuse me,'* said Elizabeth; 
" my spirits are so weak, I never could endure to see a 
corpse." 

" Why, she is only looking as we ourselves shall very 
soon." 

"La! my dear Emily!" cried Elizabeth; "but 
really I have not a moment to spare — you know how 
I 'm circumstanced. Besides," said she, looking up 
and down the street, " I am expecting Frederick every 
instant. He was to call here for us half an hour ago." 

" Poor Elizabeth ! " said Emily, as soon as they had 
got out of Mrs. Eve's shop, " how completely she is 
absorbed again in these things ; and how trifling, how 
disgusting they are ! I hope I shall never again waste 
a thought, or a moment, about them ! " 

"They are trifling certainly," said Miss Weston; 
" but I think they are only disgusting when they are 
made affairs of importance, and suffered to engage a 
disproportionate share of time and attention. ' There 
is a time for all things,' you know, — a little time, 
even for attending to the trifles of life. It would not 
pain me, I confess, to see EHzabeth just now busily 
engaged in these affairs, if I were sure they were kept 
in due subordination to better things : but there is the 
danger." 

" I wish she had been with us to-day," said Emily, 
" that she might have felt, as I did, the transition from 
that room to Mrs. Eve's exhibition." 

" It is very desirable sometimes," said Miss Weston, 
" to view the gayeties of life in such strong contrast ; 
and we should be careful constantly to maintain such 
an impression of these realities, as to counteract their 



DISPLA V. 73 

undue influence. But it is not intended that we should 
walk through the world only by a sepulchral light ; nor 
that we should be always turning aside from its pleas- 
ant fields, to wander among the tombs. Indeed, the 
mind may take a melancholy pleasure in being famil- 
iarized with such objects, without making real progress 
in rehgion. It is far better for our thoughts to be ha- 
bitually fixed on the world beyond the grave : that is 
more likely to stimulate us to run the race that is set 
before us, with patience, with vigor, and with cheerful- 
ness j and to give us at last the victory over the grave/* 

The first time Emily called upon the widow Jones 
after her daughter's funeral, she found her in a great 
deal of trouble. 

The expenses of a long iUness had reduced her so 
low that she was unable to pay her rent, which had 
already run on several quarters. By Eleanor's deatb 
she had also lost her chief means of support ; being 
herself too feeble to go out to work as she used to do. 
So that, with grievous lamentations, she told Emily 
she must turn out of her cottage, and end her days in 
the parish poor-house. 

Emily, much concerned at this account, set off to 
consult with her friends at Stokely. At the outskirts 
of the park there was a little building covered with ivy, 
which had formerly been a pleasure-house, but was 
now disused, and falling into decay. It struck Emily, 
as she passed, that with a little repair it might be made 
a comfortable asylum for the poor widow. She went 
in full of this scheme ; and before she had exhausted 
half her arguments, obtained Mr. Leddenhurst's free 
consent. He promised to have it put in proper repair, 
and commissioned Emily to superintend the alterations, 
— as she expressed much anxiety lest the workmen 
should tear down the ivy, or lop the branches, which 
spread so prettily over the thatch. 



74 DISPLAY. 

Mrs. Leddenhurst engaged to supply it with furni- 
ture ; and it was to be ready by Midsummer- day, — 
the day on which Mrs. Jones had warning to quit her 
cottage. To increase the pleasure, Emily proposed 
that in the meantime it should be kept a profound 
secret from the widow. But Mrs. Leddenhurst suggest- 
ed whether, for the sake of that momentary surprise, 
it would be right to keep her so long in uneasiness at 
the thought of going to the poor-house. 

" I forgot that," said Emily ; but she looked so much 
disappointed, that Miss Weston proposed to hold out 
only an indefinite hope, which might allay her anxiety, 
without letting her know the actual good fortune that 
awaited her. 

Emily now went to work with alacrity. There was 
much to be done which she undertook to execute 
herself, besides giving directions to the workmen ; and 
she had a great deal of trouble in persuading them 
imphcitly to follow her orders. They had so little 
notion of the picturesque that if she had not kept a 
constant watch over them, the place would, in her 
opinion, have been completely spoiled. 

There was a little plot in front, overgi'own with net- 
tles, which she had cleared and was converting into a 
flower garden. The children were very much pleased 
with being employed under Emily on this occasion. 
They were permitted to weed and dig, and to do what- 
ever services she required. To adorn the entrance, 
she contrived to form a rustic porch, with a seat, of 
mossy logs and branches ; and she led over it a wild 
honeysuckle and a white jessamine, which had long 
grown there, and crept over the front of the building. 

One day, while Emily was busily employed in twining 
the sprays of her favorite jessamine over this porch, 
she was surprised by her friend Elizabeth. 

" My dear Emily," said she, " I 'm just come to bid 
you good-by — I am going to be married to-morrow." 



DISPLA K 75 

"To-morrow ! " said Emily; and her hand fell from 
the bough. 

'' Yes, indeed," replied Elizabeth ; " I did not expect 
it would be quite so soon ; but the regiment is ordered 
off immediately, and Frederick is anxious we should 
spend a few days at Cheltenham before we join it ; and 
I assure you I am quite fagged with packing and pre- 
paring. But I would not go on any account without 
seeing you," said she, with a voice and look of apathy 
that went to Emily's heart. She sat down in her porch, 
and burst into tears. 

• But Elizabeth was too busy^ and too happy, to weep. 
Just come from, the important bustle of preparation, the 
sight of Emily in her garden hat and gloves, so intent 
upon fitting up a house for an old woman, excited 
that kind of contemptuous pity, with which the simple 
pleasures of simple people are commonly regarded by 
such observers as Elizabeth. 

After standing an awkw^ard minute, wishing Emily 
had not cried, she added, 

"Well, Emily, my dear, I must not stay." 

" Stay one moment," said Emily; " I was thinking 
of the old days when we were children, and used to 
play together under the chestnut trees." 

Elizabeth was touched by the sudden recollection, 
and, without an effort, a tear came into her eye. She 
sat dowm by her friend, and they embraced affection- 
ately. 

" EHzabeth, I hope you will be happy," said Emily; 
" I hope Mr. Robinson is — " 

" Oh, he is indeed," interrupted Ehzabeth ; " I have 
no doubt I shall. He is the most pleasant, generous 
creature in the world. I wish you had seen more of 
him, Emily ; but really, of late, you know, I have been 
so particularly occupied. But, indeed, I must be 
gone 1 " said she rising ; and they parted with a hasty 
embrace. 



76 DISPLAY. 

Emily followed her to the gate, and watched her 
with tearful eyes to the winding of the road, as she 
went briskly on. 



Elizabeth slept soundly in consequence of this day's 
fatigue ; and awoke the next morning with only a con- 
fused idea of what was before her. But the red beams 
of the rising sun, shining full upon her white hat and 
feathers, brought the strange reality to her recollection. 
She started up, but the clock struck four — only four ! 
So she lay down again ; fell into a wakeful doze, and 
dreamed it was only a dream. 

At six o'clock, the maid who had nursed her from 
her infancy came to awaken her. She looked at her 
young mistress as she lay asleep, and, brushing a tear 
from her eyes, she said, " Come, Miss EHzabeth, dear, 
it 's time to get up, ma'am ! " 

At ten o'clock the chaise that was to take Elizabeth 
away stood at her father's door. Soon after," she 
appeared, covered with a splendid veil, and was handed 
in by the smiling lieutenant; when, bowing and wav- 
ing her hand to the party assembled at the street-door, 
they drove off. 

It was a beautiful morning ; the bells rang merrily, 
and as it passed the end of Church Street they out- 
noised the rattling of the -chaise. 

Elizabeth, in passing through her native town, felt an 
increased glow of satisfaction, from observing her friends 
and neighbors going about the ordinary business of the 
day. Some were washing, and some were brewing. 
Parties of children, with their workbags, were sauntering 
to school ; and there were the pale teachers, peeping 
over the tall window-blinds, to see the bride ; and 
there sat Miss Oliver with her hair in papers ; and the 
row of young women at Mrs. Eve's all together raised 
their heads from their work, at the sound of the chaise, 



DISPLAY, 77 

— while she, a gay and youthful bride, was leaving 
them all to their monotonous employments. She was 
married ; and she was going to Cheltenham. 



CHAPTER XI. 

" No, this way," cried Emily, as she was conducting 
the widow Jones to her new dwelling. 

" Dear miss ! where are you a fetching of me ? 
'T was never worth a while to turn such an old woman 
as me out of my house and home/' said she in a crying 
tone, as she went hobbling after Emily. 

" But I tell you," said Emily, " you should not be 
thinking of your old cottage now." Yet, in spite of all 
her remonstrances, the widow Jones went groaning and 
grumbling all the way to Stokely. 

Richard, and Caroline, and Lucy, were anxiously 
waiting their arrival at the garden gate. Emily, as she 
approached, called eagerly to them to stand out of the 
way, that they might not intercept the view of the 
dwelling; which, with the little white gate and rustic 
porch peeping under the trees, had certainly a very 
pretty effect. 

"What do you think of that?" said she, looking 
eagerly at the widow. 

"Deary me ! " said she. 

"Do you think it pretty? Then this is where you 
are to live. So do not be fretting any more about your 
old cottage, for you are to live here," repeated Emily. 
" Is n't it a pretty little retired place for you, now? " 

" I thank you, and his honor, and the ladies, a 
thousand and a thousand times," said she, casting a 
forlorn glance at the thick shade that environed her 
dwelling. 



78 DISPLAY, 

^' What, don't you like it?" said Emily. 

"Why, dear, I can't mislike it," said she, "here's 
a power of trees, to be sure ! but 't will be more light- 
some come winter." 

" But that is the beauty of it," said Emily. '^ Come, 
then, and see if it is not comfortable inside.", 

Emily indeed had spared no pains to make it so. 
The kettle was now boiling on the fire, and the little 
deal table was set out ready for tea. The widow's 
favorite cat had been dexterously conveyed away that 
morning, and Caroline and Lucy had kept her in safe 
custody all day. With indefatigable care and coaxing, 
and after various obstinate attempts to escape, they at 
last succeeded in making her He down to sleep upon 
the hearth. 

" Well-a-day, there 's our puss ! " exclaimed the 
widow, now looking really pleased. 

This was the only thing that did not look strange to 
her ; and novelty, much as it charms the young, is itself 
a grievance to the old. 

Emily now only waited to point out some of the 
principal beauties and conveniences of the new abode. 

" See," said she, setting open the door, " I '11 tell 
you what you should do these fine summer evenings. 
You must bring your knitting, and sit here to work in 
the porch ; you '11 look so pretty sitting to knit in the 
porch ! And be sure," added she, " that you do not 
tear down the ivy that grows over your little window." 

The widow Jones having promised to do, and not to 
do, all that she thought it reasonable to require, Emily 
only stood a moment at the door, surveying with a 
picturesque eye the group formed by the old woman, 
her cat, and the tea-table ; and then took leave, saying, 
she would ^^now leave her to enjoy herself." 

The evening before this, Emily had put the finishing 
stroke to her work ; and when it was done, she thought 
it looked such a snug little seclusion, that she very 



DISPLA Y. 79 

much longed to live there herself. It was a calm 
summer evening, she was alone, and she sat down in 
the porch to enjoy it, just at the time when the moon- 
light began to prevail over the twihght ; and Emily 
began to feel very poetically. 

x\ scrap of paper that was left there rendered the 
temptation irresistible : but she had written only a few 
lines, when Mr. Leddenhurst appeared at the garden 
gate. 

" What are you about now, Emily? " said he. 

Emily put by her verses, colored, and said, '^ Noth- 
ing, sir ; *' and then took him in to admire her con- 
trivances. He did' admire them, and she thought no 
more about her verses till she got home again, and 
found herself alone in her father's parlor. She then 
read them over, merely to see if they were worth finish- 
ing ; and she took a fresh piece of paper, and was just 
getting into the spirit of it again, when she heard her 
father's knock at the door, and he, with several other 
gentlemen, came bustling in, talking all together, and 
very earnestly, about a parish dispute which was to be 
decided the next day at the county assizes. 

" I tell you, sir, they must lose their cause," said 
one of them, — " Miss Grey, how d 'ye do, ma'am ? 
And I '11 give you my reasons, Mr. Grey — " 

" Take off these things, child," said her father, 
pushing away Emily's papers rather disrespectfully, and 
laying a pile of law-books on tlie table, 

Emily took them off, and made her escape as fast 
as possible to her own room, thinking, as she went, 
how foolish it was of her to write poetry. The verses 
were put by in a folio with several similar effusions, of 
which some were better, and some worse. They were 
mostly in a strain that to the uninitiated might appear 
inconsistent with Emily's lively and flourishing appear- 
ance. But nothing could be more unreasonable than 
requiring young writers of poetry to "prove their 



So DISPLA V. 

words ; '* unless it were, inflicting upon them some of 
the extraordinary things they sometimes wish for them- 
selves when they are rhyming. 

The verses Emily began writing this evening in the 
widow's porch were as follows : — 

Say, spirit, if thou wanderest nigh, 

Of every sylvan dale ; 
What forms, unseen by mortal eye, 

Frequent this leafy vale. 

Perchance 'twas once the flowery court - 

Of merry elfin king.; 
Where fairy people loved to sport, 

And tread the nightly ring. 

The sun, descending down the sky, 

In floods of misty light, 
Surveys it with his golden eye, 

And makes the valley bright. 

The moon, who rideth in her pride 

At solemn midnight hour ; 
And sheds her radiance far and wide, 

On turret, dome and tower, 

Here sleeps upon the checkered glade ; 

Nor finds a softer rest 
On myrtle bower, or classic shade. 

Or ocean's silver breast. 

And oft would I, alone, resort 

To this seclusion dear ; 
Unchecked to breathe the ardent thought, 

Or shed th' unquestioned tear. 

O Nature ! how thy charms beguile 

Or soothe our cares to sleep ! 
Thou seem'st to smile with those who smile, 

And weep with those who weep ! 

The vernal tint, the summer breeze. 

E'en winter's aspect drear, 
Thy woods, and vales, and skies, and seas. 

Like friendship soothe and cheer. 



DISPLAY. 8 1 

The soul in thy serene retreats 

Communion sweet may find ; 
But gay assemblies, crowded streets, 

Are desert to the mind. 

The throng where giddy mortals press, 

Is solitude to me ; 
But Nature, in her wildest dress, 

Refined society. 



CHAPTER XII. 

Elizabeth had scarcely been married two months 
when she received the news of her father's death. He 
was taken off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy ; and his 
affairs were found in so embarrassed a state that a nar- 
row jointure alone secured his widow, and her recent 
settlement his daughter, from absolute want. 

In consequence of this change of fortune, Mrs. 
Palmer immediately retired to a distance from Broadi- 
sham : and about the same time, Elizabeth despatched 
the following letter to Mr. Leddenhurst. 

Chester, September 23. 

My dear Sir, — It would be absolutely impossible 
for me to attempt to describe the variety of painful 
emotions I experience at this moment, in taking the 
liberty of addressing you. Nothing indeed but a con- 
viction of your extreme goodness could have embold- 
ened me to undertake so awkward a task. 

The poignant affliction occasioned by the loss of 
my lamented parent needed no aggravation ; but I am 
persuaded you cannot be a stranger to the very un- 
pleasant embarrassments in which, in consequence of 
his untimely decease, his affairs are involved. The 

6 



32 DISPLAY. 

result to us, as you may readily imagine, has been 
particularly unfortunate. The truth is, my dear sir, 
that Lieutenant Robinson, depending on those resour- 
ces of which we have been so fatally disappointed, has 
contracted some trifling debts, which it is, in fact, out 
of his power immediately to discharge. He has, you 
know, considerable expectations, but these are of no 
present avail; and I am persuaded you would be 
greatly concerned were I to relate the excessively 
unpleasant circumstances to which we have been ex- 
posed for some time past. In consequence of which 
I have been induced to address you ; and encouraged 
by a recollection of your former goodness, to request 
the loan of two hundred pounds, if perfectly conven- 
ient ; and which there is not the smallest doubt but 
we shall in a very short time be able to return. 

You may be surprised that Mr. Robinson does not 
apply to his relations. The fact is, that the uncle to 
whom he has repeatedly written on the subject, is a 
low man, in trade, of very sordid and contracted 
ideas ; who absolutely refuses the smallest assistance, 
except on conditions with which it is absolutely im- 
possible we should comply. 

This determined me to trouble you with the present 
application ; indeed there is no individual in the whole 
circle of my friends on whose generosity and friend- 
ship I could so firmly rely. And need I say, under 
what infinite obligations we shall consider ourselves, 
should you be induced to comply with the request ? 

Lieutenant Robinson begs to join me in kindest 
regards to yourself and Mrs. Leddenhurst ; and believe 
me, my dear sir, with the greatest respect, your most 
obliged friend and servant, 

Elizabeth Robinson. 

A tremendous secret was discovered to Elizabeth 
a very short time after her marriage, in a letter from 



DISPLA V. Ss 

this uncle. Lieutenant Robinson had been — a linen- 
draper. 

He was a weak, hot-headed young man. A dislike 
to business, that is, to employment, and an opportu- 
nity he once had of trying on a military hat, inspired 
him with an ardent desire for the profession of arms. 
And at the expiration of his apprenticeship to his 
uncle, deaf to the remonstrances of his prudent friends, 
he commenced the life of a gentleman. 

In order to escape the ridicule of his brother-officers, 
and to remove, if possible, the suspicions they evident- 
ly entertained of his origin, he thought it requisite to 
plunge into most of their extravagances. In conse- 
quence of which — notwithstanding occasional supplies 
from his uncle, and the convenient practice of leaving 
every town at which they were stationed in debt — he 
was kept in perpetual embarrassments. 

His alliance with Miss Palmer, therefore, appeared 
a very eligible measure. He had been confidently 
assured that her father was a man of handsome 
property, and this opinion everything he saw at his 
house and table tended to confirm. 

Elizabeth thought this discovery at once released 
her from all obligation to love, honor, or obey her 
husband. From that time she conducted herself 
towards him with coldness and haughtiness, which he 
bore with tolerable patience until the intelligence of 
her father's death, and the unexpected state of his 
affairs, gave him, as he said, '^a just right to resent 
it." 

Trained in habits of show and expense, and wholly 
unaccustomed to economical calculation, Elizabeth 
had soon made alarming demands upon her husband's 
limited resources ; which, depending upon her prom- 
ised but delayed portion, he had not thought it 
necessary to check. 

The news of Mr. Palmer's insolvency made an 



84 DISPLA V. 

immediate alteration in this respect. Nor did Eliza- 
beth fully comprehend the nature of her misfortune, 
until the first time that, for want both of money and 
credit, she was really obliged to deny herself some- 
thing she wished for. With a strange feeling of 
impatient astonishment, she then discovered that she 
musf do without what she had said '^ it was absolutely 
impossible to do without." A scene of mutual up- 
braiding between herself and her husband was the 
consequence of this first lesson in economy, or rather 
in poverty. But they reproached each other, not for 
their faults, but their misfortunes, — not for being im- 
prudent, but for being poor. 

EHzabeth, how^ever, had no sooner despatched her 
letter to Stokely than she felt reheved of her difficulties. 
She had witnessed so many instances of Mr. Ledden- 
hurst^s generosity that she was confident of receiving 
the requested supply. And she had not yet learned 
to look beyond the narrow extent of two hundred 
pounds. 

She was engaged to dine at the colonel's, and had 
just finished dressing for the occasion, when her hus- 
band brought her the expected letter. 

" This is fortunate indeed," said she. " Then, Mr. 
Robinson, be so good, while I read it, to step over to 
Levi's, and desire them to send the gold clasps. You 
may say, you know, I shall call and settle the account 
to-morrow morning." 

They who have ever unfolded a letter, expecting at 
every turn to behold the fine texture and expressive 
features of a bank-note, which was really wanted, and 
found it was only a letter, will know better what Eliza- 
beth felt on this occasion, than others who never met 
with such a circumstance. Having first turned it 
about in all directions, she sat down and read as 
follows : — 



DISPLA Y. 85 

Stokely, September 28. 

My dear Mrs. Robinson, — I should be sorry to 
forfeit the opmion you are so good as to entertain of 
my readiness to serve my friends by every means in 
my power ; and shall be happy should I succeed in con- 
vincing you, that I am sincerely desirous of doing so 
in the present instance, — although it may not be in 
the way that appears most expedient to you. 

I should have been greatly at a loss to know how 
most effectually to serve you, if I had not been favored 
with an interview with Lieutenant Robinson's uncle, of 
whose character I conceive you have formed a mistaken 
idea. He appears to me to be a man of integrity, 
good sense, and benevolence ; and highly deserving 
the esteem and confidence of his relations. 

He has undertaken a journey to Broadisham, with 
the view of explaining to your friends the plan he had 
suggested to his nephew, in hopes of obtaining their 
concurrence, and influence with you. 

Having himself been unsuccessful in former applica- 
tions to you and Lieutenant Robinson, he has request- 
ed me to address you on the subject ; a task which I 
undertake the more cheerfully, since you have already 
indulged me with your confidence. 

Mr. Sandford informs me that Lieutenant Robinson 
was not intended for the military profession, having 
been trained to business ; but entered it very recently, 
contrary to the advice of his friends. His uncle hoped, 
however, that after having experienced some of the 
inconveniences to which he would be exposed from 
such a change of habits and circumstances, he w^ould 
more readily listen to proposals for returning to his for- 
mer pursuits ; and had determined, for a time, to urge 
him no further on the subject. It w^as not till he heard 
of his having formed an alliance, and with so young a 
lady, ill qualified to brook the difficulties of her situa- 



S6 DISPLA K. 

tion, that Mr. Sandford became solicitous to prevail 
with his nephew to abandon his new profession imme- 
diately. 

With regard to those expectations you allude to, 
Mr. Sandford requests me, as a friend, my dear madam, 
to assure you that they must prove wholly^ fallacious, 
unless Mr. Robinson founds them on his own diligent 
exertions. Should he be willing to enter into the pru- 
dent views of his uncle, he may depend upon every 
support and encouragement it is in his power to afford ; 
otherwise he must still submit to those distressing 
embarrassments to which the expensive habits so 
commonly contracted in his profession, and the limited 
resources it affords, unite to expose him. 

Justice to his other relations, Mr. Sandford directs 
me to say, must forbid his continuing to answer Mr. 
Robinson's repeated demands, even if there were a 
probability of its proving of any ultimate advantage to 
him ; but so far from this, he considers that it would 
only be a means of encouraging those expensive habits, 
and, in the end, of plunging him in deeper embarrass- 
ments. 

And now, my dear Mrs. Robinson, permit me to 
assure you, that I am solely influenced by a tender 
concern for your real welfare, when I earnestly recom- 
mend you to use every endeavor to prevail upon Mr. 
Robinson to accede to his uncle's proposals. I am 
not surprised that, at first sight, they should appear to 
you such as it was absolutely impossible to comply 
with ; and I readily admit that nothing less than an 
heroic effort can enable you to submit with a good 
grace to such a change of circumstances. But in 
making that effort you would find a noble satisfaction ; 
and in descending cheerfully and gracefully to an hum- 
bler sphere, more true independence and dignity of 
mind would be exerted than would probably ever be 
displayed throughout the whole of a gay life. 



DISPLAY. 87 

Considering that it might not be agreeable to his 
nephew to engage in business in his own immediate 
neighborhood, Mr. Sandford has been making inquiries 
in different directions, and has lately met with a very 
eligible offer from a respectable tradesman retiring 
from business. The only objection that I know of to 
the situation is, that it is at the village of Hilsbury, not 
more than fifteen miles distant from Broadisham ; but 
as it is much secluded, and remote from any of your 
connections, perhaps you would not consider that a 
sufficient reason for declining it. The present pro- 
prietor has realized a considerable property in the 
concern, — it being the only one in that line in a 
populous neighborhood ; and I should conceive a 
retired situation of this nature would be more agreea- 
ble to you than the publicity of a large town. 

Should Mr. Robinson be willing to undertake this 
concern, his uncle and I will cheerfully unite to advance 
the capital ; and with regard to the remittance you 
mention, it will be fonvarded to Chester by the same 
day's post that informs us of his having agreed to this 
proposal. 

In case of your concurrence, Mr. Sandford pro- 
poses to enter immediately upon the business at Hils- 
bury, in his nephew's name ; where he would see 
everything properly prepared for your reception, and 
await your arrival. 

After all, my dear friend, I am aware that no terms 
can be employed in this affair that will not be harsh 
and offensive to you ; nor will I attempt to represent 
what might be called the pleasant side of it : for per- 
haps you have not yet had sufficient experience of the 
inconveniences of an unsettled hfe, nor of the miseries 
of showy poverty, to estimate the value of a peaceful 
home and a moderate competence. 

I would rather remind you that we are never so 
safe, nor so truly well off, as when following the obvious 



SS DISPLA V. 

directions of providence. Our affairs are all ordered 
by Him who is acquainted not only with our outward 
circumstances, but most intimate with our hearts ; and 
who knows by what means they will be most effectu- 
ally subdued, and made willing to accept of real happi- 
ness. And be assured, my dear friend, that by what- 
ever circumstances we are taught the nature and value 
of real rehgion, and led cordially to embrace it, then, 
and not till then, we shall find happiness. 

Believe me your very sincere friend, 

C. L. Leddenhurst. 

When Lieutenant Robinson returned from his com- 
mission to the jeweller's, he found his lady in strong 
hysterics in her room. 

" Mercy upon us ! what 's the matter ? '* exclaimed 
he, stopping in dismay at the door. ^^ Elizabeth ! 
Betsy! why don't you speak, child? What's the 
matter, I say? " continued he, advancing towards her. 

But Elizabeth took no notice, except motioning with 
her hand for him to stand further off. Presently a 
servant came in, saying, 

" If you please, ma'am, here 's Mr. Levi, with the 
gold clasps for you to choose ; and here 's the bill he bid 
me to bring up to you." 

" I can't look at them now ; tell him to call another 
time," said Elizabeth. '' There, Mr. Robinson, read 
that ! " said she, pointing to the letter, and again falling 
back in her chair. 

When he had read it, he walked up and down 
thoughtfully for some time ; at length, going towards 
his wife, he said, timidly, 

" I '11 tell you what, my dear, it does not signify ob- 
jecting and objecting, we must, I know we must — " 

'' Must what?" said Elizabeth. 

'' Must do what Mr. Leddenhurst says, my dear." 

" Do exactly as you think proper, " cried Elizabeth ; 



DISPLA V. 89 

*' I am not in the least surprised, Mr. Robinson, that 
you are so willing to acquiesce in it ; but I never will 
— do you suppose I ever would submit to be the wife 
of a tradesman? '' 

" I '11 tell you what, Betsy ! " said her husband, flying 
into a passion, ^^ I can't nor I won't submit to this any 
longer ! You did n't bring me a penny, nor a halfpenny, 
nor a sixpence ; and what business have yo7ij I should 
be glad to know, to talk in this unbecoming manner 
to 7ne ? " 

" O heavens ! " cried Elizabeth, ^^ what a barbarian ! 
Let me escape ! " and rising hastily, she flew down 
stairs, and throwing herself tragically into the chair, 
which had been long waiting for her at the door, ordered 
to be taken to Colonel Harrison's. 

While she was going there, EHzabeth, notwithstand- 
ing her complicated misfortunes, was far from feeling 
really unhappy. She remembered a great many her- 
oines who had been in debt and had bad husbands. 
Young, lovely, distressed, she was flying for protection 
from his cruelty. Besides, she had fully determined to 
open her whole heart to her frieitd Mrs. Harrison ; 
and she was quite certain, that by some means or other, 
she should be rescued from the threatened degrada- 
tion. 

Elizabeth made her entree at the Colonel's with an 
air of interesting distress. There was nobody then 
present but the lady of the house, and the major 
of the regiment, with whom she was particularly in- 
timate. 

" My dear creature, how shockingly ill you look ! '* 
exclaimed Mrs. Harrison. 

" Indeed I am not very well," said she ; and throw- 
ing herself upon the sofa, she burst into an agony of 
tears. 

While Mrs. Harrison was repeating her inquiries and 
condolence, the graceful major seated himself beside 
her, saying, tenderly, 



90 DISPLA K 

''My dear Mrs. Robinson, what has happened to 
distress you ? Only tell me if there is any possible way 
in which I can serve you." 

Elizabeth could only reply by smiling on him grate- 
fully through her tears, for other company entered at 
that moment. But she whispered Mrs. Harrison, that 
she would tell her all as soon as they were alone. 

After dinner the ladies walked in the garden ; when 
Ehzabeth contrived to take her friend aside for a few 
minutes. She found it, however, an awkward task, 
notwithstanding the vague and general terms she em- 
ployed, to disclose those parts of her story which 
related to her husband's connections. 

" But, my dear child, what an unlucky thing you 
should ever have liked him ! '^ said Mrs. Harrison. 
" Upon my word, my dear, I feel quite distressed for 
you." 

'* Only tell me what steps I ought to take," said Eliz- 
abeth ; *' I rely entirely on your friendship.'* 

'' Indeed, my dear, I should be excessively happy to 
advise you, and serve you, I 'm sure, in any way that 
lies in my power, in this unpleasant affair ; but really 
it 's an awkward thing to interfere between man and 
wife. Indeed, I am not so much surprised that Lieu- 
tenant Robinson should consider it altogether most 
prudent to take the advice of his relations.'' 

'' But what then will become of me? " cried Eliza- 
beth, weeping passionately. 

" Come, come, my dear Mrs. Robinson, let me beg 
of you not to discompose yourself thus," said Mrs. Har- 
rison. "To be sure," continued she, sighing. ''We 
know it is our duty at all times to submit to what the 
Almighty is pleased to appoint for us. But really, I 
must insist upon it, that you do not distress yourself in 
this manner; I can't endure to see you so unhappy. 
Here are all our friends ! — for heaven's sake, my 
dear, dry your tears. Shall I send you a glass of any- 
thing?" 



DISPLAY, 91 

" Nothing, thank you," said Elizabeth, who felt, at 
this forlorn moment, the difference between a friend 
and an acquaintance. The others now joined them ; 
and as her eye wandered from one smiling, selfish face 
to another — faces from which the unhappy had noth- 
ing to hope — she involuntarily thought of Emily, and 
Stokely. The major, however, was a friend nearer at 
hand ; but she saw no more of him during the evening. 
When she returned at ten o'clock to her comfortless 
lodgings, she was surprised to find him in earnest con- 
versation with her husband. 

The major, who was very good-natured, had fre- 
quently accommodated Lieutenant Robinson with 
small sums of money ; which by this time had amounted 
to a debt that he was anxious to have discharged. He 
had been rather pressing on this subject of late j so 
that the lieutenant came to the resolution of disclosing 
to him the whole state of his affairs, and asking his 
advice on the present emergency. No sooner did the 
major understand that by resigning his commission he 
would be able to pay his debts, than he warmly urged 
him to comply : and it was not so difficult a matter to 
persuade him as it would once have been. He began 
to be weary of his present mode of life, of which the 
novelty had already worn off; and of the misery of 
being always in debt, and always short of money. 
His objections to business were less insurmountable 
than those of his lady. It was not pride, but idleness ; 
and he now considered what a difference there would 
be between master and man. 

" But then there 's my wife," said he to the major. 
^' If you had but seen the piece of work we had this 
morning ! Let me beg of you, my dear sir, to try 
what you can do with her ; she will not listen to me, 
that 's for certain." 

This task the major undertook ; and when Elizabeth 
entered, he addressed her with an air of friendly inter- 
est, saying — 



92 DISPLAY. 

" Mrs. Robinson, we have just been talking over 
this awkward business of yours ; and I do assure you 
very seriously, as I Ve been telling Robinson, I do not 
see any other plan in the world that as a man of honor 
he could adopt. In fact, if I were in his place, I 
should not hesitate a single instant about the business. 
Indeed, for my own part, I should not feel any partic- 
ular reluctance to — to — engaging in mercantile con- 
cerns ; upon my life I shouldn't. If he were a single 
man," continued the major, observing the gathering 
gloom in Elizabeth's countenance, " it would be wholly 
a different affair ; but when a man is responsible for 
the honor and happiness of a young and lovely wo- 
man — " 

"Oh, do not talk oi my happiness," cried Eliza- 
beth, glancing expressively at her husband ; "' that is 
sacrificed for ever ! " 

" Heaven forbid I '' said the major, looking at his 
watch. 

"' So the major 's been advising of me to lose no time 
about the business ; and he thought I had better wTite 
to my uncle and Mr. Leddenhurst by return of post. 
And so you see, my dear, it 's all settled," said Lieu- 
tenant Robinson, anxious to make the whole confession 
before his friend was gone. 

" And I am extremely glad that everything is so hap- 
pily adjusted," said he, rising ; and unwilling to wait 
the issue either of fainting-fits or remonstrances, he 
took leave. 

As the door closed upon the gay, agreeable major, 
Elizabeth felt herself abandoned to wretchedness. 
She had no inclination to go into hysterics, nor to 
remonstrate with her husband ; but sat silent and mo- 
tionless, watching him, while he was sealing and direct- 
ing the letters for Stokely. And now she felt really un- 
happy. 

The loss of rank is a misfortune : and Elizabeth 



DISPLAY. 93 

felt its utmost poignancy. She had ahvays indulged 
that senseless contempt for trade, and trades-people, 
which is prevalent among the vulgar of her class ; and 
she had not had opportunities of knowing that many 
of the truly noble, the excellent of the earth — that 
many persons of superior understandings, even of real 
taste, and respectable information — are to be found 
standing behind a country counter. 

Having, however, no means of redress, Elizabeth 
suffered the necessary arrangements for their departure 
to take place undisturbed. During the few^ weeks 
they still remained at Chester, she never allowed 
herself to take any distinct view of the future, — only 
indulging a kind of vague hope, that anything so in- 
supportable as the condition w^hich threatened her, she 
should never be actually permitted to endure. And 
since nothing was now to be hoped from friends, 
relations, or acquaintance, she began to think that 
chance, or fate, or Providence, or something, would 
certainly interfere to prevent it. 



CHAPTER Xni. 

Notwithstanding these hopes, the day actually 
arrived on which EHzabeth and her husband took 
leave of Chester, and set off for their new home. 

For, in this interval, no distant relation had died 
and left them a fortune ; not a single individual in all 
the city of Chester had offered to lend them a thousand 
pounds ; no banker, brewer, nor merchant, wanted a 
partner ; no fashionable dowager a companion. In 
short, neither luck nor accident prevented their driving 
safely into the village of Hilsbury on the very day they 
were expected. 



94 DISPLAY, 

ROBINSON, in gold letters, over the door of a 
smart country shop, pointed out to Elizabeth her 
future residence. 

"Is there no private door?*' said she to her new 
uncle, as he handed her from the chaise. 

"We have no other door; please to follow me, 
ma'am, and I '11 show you the way," said he, conducting 
her through the shop, into a light, pleasant parlor. It 
was in reality far pleasanter than the dark and shabby 
apartment which Elizabeth used to call her drawing- 
room, in their lodgings at Chester. 

"Welcome to Hilsbury, ma'am!" said the uncle, 
courteously. 

Elizabeth bowed; and returned laconic answers to 
his repeated good-natured attempts to draw her into 
conversation. 

But Mr. Robinson, who felt more at ease, and more 
in his element than he had done for two years past, 
was in high good-humor, and very talkative. 

" Bless my heart, uncle, what a nice snug little place 
you 've got for us here ! " said he, rubbing his hands, 
and looking round the room. 

There were some neat flower-stands, set out with 
autumn flowers ; and a very pretty painted work-table ; 
and various little decorations; at which, however, 
Elizabeth was rather surprised than pleased, when she 
observed them. 

Every part of the house wore the same appearance 
of neatness and comfort ; and seemed adjusted by a 
correct taste, careful to prevent an awkward contrast 
between the shop and the dwelling. It was something 
more than neat, and yet less than elegant. 

Elizabeth, as she was conducted over it, could not 
help wondering that the old man should have so good 
a notion of doing things. For he had been strictly 
forbidden to inform her to whose taste and activity 
the credit really belonged. She was indebted to Mr. 



DISPLA V. 95 

Sandford for the desire of having everything comfort- 
able for her reception, and for the wiUingness to pay for 
it, — but it was her friend Emily who had done the rest. 

Emily, having heard Mr. Sandford expressing a wish 
that things might be made as agreeable as possible to 
the young lady, and lamenting his own ignorance of 
these affairs, earnestly requested permission to attend 
him to Hilsbury, to assist in making the requisite 
preparations : which was agreed to, upon Miss Wes- 
ton's offering to accompany her. And during the 
time that Elizabeth was waiting at Chester, thinking 
herself abandoned by all the world, her two friends 
were busily employed in planning and executing those 
little contrivances to make her comfortable which 
would not occur to the genius of an upholsterer. 

It was not till the morning of the very day on which 
Elizabeth was expected, that all was in complete read- 
iness. Mr. Leddenhurst's carriage stood at the door 
to take them home. Miss Weston was quite ready to 
go ; but Emily still lingered, to see if everything was 
in exact order. She replaced the flowers ; then re- 
turned to adjust the folds of the window curtains ; 
and stood at the parlor door, to see how it would 
strike Elizabeth when she first entered. She next 
returned to that which was intended to be EHzabeth's 
room, — which was fortunate ; for the wind had blown 
up one corner of the white napkin on the dressing- 
table. Emily laid it smooth, set the looking-glass in 
precisely the proper angle, once more patted the 
volumes on the book-shelves quite even, and after a 
moment's thought took down the handsome new Bible 
which had been provided, and laid it on the dressing- 
table. She then went down stairs, and having repeated 
sundry injunctions to Mr. Sandford, sprang nimbly into 
the carriage and drove off. 

When Elizabeth arose the next morning, refreshed 
from the fatigue of her journey, and opened her 



96 DISPLA V. 

pleasant window, which looked across the village street 
- upon a fine hilly country, her spirits experienced a 
momentary revival - a transient glow of comfort, such 
as will occasionally beam out upon the deepest gloom. 
But it was transient. The sight of Mr. Edwards, the 
shopman, in the street below, taking down the shutters, 
recalled her to a sense of her unhappiness. ' 

Comfort sounds a dull word to those who are accus- 
tomed to live upon enjoyment : to Elizabeth it had few 
charms. In surveying her new situation, she was rather 
provoked than pleased, to find there was anything to 
render her discontent less, reasonable. She had neither 
philosophy enough to ^e pleased, nor good-nature 
enough to appear so. Indeed it is notliing less than 
Christian humility, that can make persons willing to be 
happy in any way that is not of their own choosing. 

Old Mr. Sandford's was the only pleasant face that 
was brought down to breakfast this morning ; for poor 
Frederick Robinson found that the two idle years he 
had spent in his Majesty's service had not had the 
smallest tendency to lessen his dislike to useful em- 
ployment. He sighed heavily, when, as soon as 
breakfast was over, his uncle with the promptness of 
an industrious man, hurried him away to the counting- 
house ; while Elizabeth, who scrupulously avoided 
engaging in anything that would seem like acquiescing 
in her fate, shut herself up in her room, and employed 
herself in unpacking her portmanteaus. When she had 
done so, in spite of her reluctance, she found it most 
expedient to put away the things in her new drawers. 
With a heavy heart she put by the gay dresses and 
ornaments, which were now useless to her ; but it was 
with a deeper pang that she laid aside her husband's 
discarded uniform. She gazed at' the faded scarlet, 
and tarnished gold ; and felt, that that was all she had 
ever admired in Lieutenant Robinson. 

The reserve and coldness with whiich Elizabeth 



DISPLAY, 97 

conducted herself towards Mr. Sandford could not 
overcome his good-nature. He was particularly fond 
of young people, and longed to express the kindness 
of a relation ; but he was careful not to offend her by 
unwelcome familiarity. He saw that she was placed 
in a new and mortifying situation ; and while he re- 
garded her with true pity and benevolence, he treated 
her with such respectful tenderness as would have 
dispelled the gloom from many a brow. 

Emily loved the old man ; and he, while witnessing 
her cheerful, disinterested zeal in the ser\dce of her 
friend, and while receiving from her himself those 
respectful attentions which she involuntarily paid to 
age and worth in every station, often wished that his 
nephew might have made as good a choice. 

Mr. Sandford had been so long absent from his own 
concerns, that he could only remain a few days longer, 
to introduce his nephew to the business. During this 
period he observed with some uneasiness the unpromis- 
ing disposition they both discovered towards their new 
duties. Elizabeth sat in state all day at her work-table, 
leaving her domestic affairs to fate and a servant ; 
while Mr. Robinson wished excessively to be allowed 
to lounge about in the same gentlemanlike idleness he 
had been lately used to. As to the business, his uncle 
and Edwards, he thought, were quite sufficient at pres- 
ent; but as soon as his uncle was gone, he declared 
that he intended to give his mind to it — "upon his 
word and honor he would.'* 

Accustomed to revel at his ease at the luxurious 
mess, he felt it a particular hardship to have to rise in 
the midst of dinner to attend a customer. 

"Frederick — the bell, Frederick!" his uncle used 
to say ; but he would be so long preparing to go, that 
his good-natured uncle usually went himself, — Freder- 
ick contenting himself with pretending to rise, and say- 
ing, " Don't you go, sir 1 " 

7 



gS DISPLAY. 

It was not, therefore, without anxiety that Mr. Sand- 
ford took leave of his niece and nephew. Just before 
he set off, he called the latter aside, and gave him 
some good advice, particularly on the subjects of indus- 
try and frugality. 

" You know, Frederick," said he, " how handsomely 
Mr. Leddenhurst has come forward ; and as for me, I 
have done more than I ought, in justice to your poor 
sister and your cousins. So that if you get into fresh 
difficulties, you must look to others to help you out, for 
I have done my utmost. And, Frederick," added he, 
in a milder tone, '^ while we are speaking, let me beg of 
you to treat poor Mrs. Robinson with as much respect 
and delicacy as possible. You should consider that 
you have brought her into a very different situation to 
what she was brought up to, and it 's natural she should 
feel it — quite natural. You should consider, too, 
what a delicate young creature she is, and give her 
every indulgence that 's prudent ; and make allow- 
ances. A httle tenderness and consideration may do 
a great deal in reconciling her to her circumstances." 

To all this, and more, Mr. Robinson continued 
saying, ^^ Certainly, sir; certainly, sir." As soon as 
his uncle was gone, for which all the time he had been 
rather impatient, he ran up stairs to unpack a new 
vioKn which he had brought from Chester, but which 
he had not thought fit to produce during his uncle's 
stay. He always believed that he had a fine ear for 
music ; and to scrape on this instrument, was one of 
the accomplishments he had acquired during his life 
of leisure. 

The village of Hilsbury was remarkably secluded in 
its situation and appearance. It consisted of a single 
street, hidden amid the solitude of fine, but barren 
hills ; and, with the exception of Mr. Robinson's house, 
was formed entirely of stone cottages. The business 
depended upon the custom of the neighboring farms, 



DISPLA V. 99 

and of the poor inhabitants of many little hamlets that 
were scattered among the hills. 

In this sohtude EHzabeth's days passed with dreary 
sameness. She used to sit by her fireside during the 
dark afternoons of this November, and, watching the 
sparks from the blacksmith's shed that was directly 
opposite the house, muse upon scenes of past happi- 
ness. This was her only solace ; except, indeed, that 
she experienced a secret satisfaction from the contrast 
between herself and her condition. When she sur- 
veyed her delicate form, her white hands, her beautiful 
hair, her dress, though unornamented, still elegant, she 
felt that she was still a heroine in distress. But it was 
a satisfaction too shght to be a real alleviation ; be- 
cause there were so few to witness it, and those few so 
insignificant. And she now discovered — what it re- 
quired some experience to believe — that it is a far 
pleasanter thing to be a heroine nof in distress. 

Elizabeth had been some time in her new abode, 
before she had once made her appearance in the shop. 
The first time she did so, it was to procure some 
articles she wanted herself. ''Pray do you sell silk 
fringe?" she said, in the same tone and manner with 
which she had been accustomed to make her pur- 
chases. 

While she was examining the box of fringes, and 
turning over card after card with her delicate fingers, 
some ladies from a seat at some miles' distance hap- 
pened to stop at the door in a barouche. Elizabeth 
took no notice of them as they entered, but continued 
looking over the fringes, and withdrew as soon as she 
had found some that suited her. But just as she was 
quitting the shop, she had the satisfaction of hearing 
one of them say to Edwards, in a tone of surprise, '' Is 
t/iaf Mrs. Robinson?" Elizabeth was seen reading, 
very intently, at the parlor window, when the barouche 
drove past. 



lOO DISPLAY. 

There was a green in the outskirts of the village, 
where the neighboring young farmers used to assemble 
to play at cricket. Mr. Robinson was fond of this 
diversion ; and he soon became one of the most con- 
stant attendants there. 

One day, just as he had snapped to his fiddle-case, 
and was reaching down his hat to go to this green, Mr. 
Edwards walked into the counting-house. 

" I just wish to say, Mr. Robinson," said he, "that 
I shall be obliged to you to look out for some other 
person to do your business, sir. It 's what I never 
was used to, and what I can't undertake, to have 
everything laying upon one pair of hands ; and unless 
you think proper to give me some assistance, Mr. 
Robinson, the sooner you suit yourself the better, 
sir." 

Much as Mr. Robinson was disturbed at this speech 
he could not give up going to the cricket-ground ; but 
he told Mr. Edwards he would take it into considera- 
tion, and assured him he should have some help before 
long. He felt, however, very much perplexed and 
discomfited on this occasion. There were few afflic- 
tions he dreaded so much as that of being obliged to 
exert himself. 

As he walked down the street, wishing Edwards 
would not be so unaccountably lazy, and wondering 
what he should do, some fine nuts caught his eye, that 
were exposed for sale in a cottage window ; he bought 
some — and was comforted. He was very fond of 
good things in general, and of these in particular; 
and while he sat on a seat upon the cricket-ground, 
cracking his nuts, he forgot his troubles ; at least, they 
did not oppress him. There were few of the evils of 
life for which an apple, a nut, and especially a good 
dinner, would not afford him temporary relief. And 
if this real interest in the sweet and the savory were 
peculiar to persons of no higher intellectual pretensions 



DISPLAY. lOl 

than Mr. Frederick Robinson, it would not be at all 
unaccountable. 

But when both the feast and the sport were over, 
and he was returning late in the afternoon through the 
village street, the lights in his shop window brought 
it again to his remembrance. At supper time he 
appeared full of thought. Elizabeth did not take sup- 
pers ; she was reading the newspaper, at the further 
end of the room. 

" I say, Elizabeth ! " said he, all on a sudden, as soon 
as he had finished supper. 

Elizabeth looked up from the newspaper. 

'' There 's one thing that I have been going to speak 
of ever since we have been here ; and it 's what I hope 
you '11 not make any piece of work nor opposition 
about, because it's absolutely, indispensably neces- 
sary. " 

" What is that, pray? " said Elizabeth. 

" I must say, then, " continued he, " that this is the 
first business I ever was in, in my life, where the mistress 
— where the lady — did not use to go in sometimes 
when she was wanted. " 

" What do you mean, Mr. Robinson?" said Eliza- 
beth. 

" I mean what I say, " replied he, " I mean that it 
is a sin and a shame to see a woman sitting all day long 
in her parlor, doing of work and nonsense, when there 's 
a shop full of customers that want to be waited on. 
Why, there was Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Johnson, and — '* 

" Gracious goodness ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, ^' this 
exceeds all — everything ! I really did not imagine — I 
confess I had not the smallest idea that any one — that 
you, even you, Mr. Robinson, would ever have thought 
of proposing such a thing ! " 

'* Bless my heart, Betsy ! what a riot for nothing ! I 
say, then, whatever you may think of it, something 
must be done. There 's Edwards this very day been 



102 DISPLAY, 

giving of me warning, because he has so much upon 
his hands, and nobody to help him. As for me, you 
know very well that I am confined from morning to 
night to the counting-house, and can't stir ; and I see 
plainly the business is going to ruin. And my uncle 
will lay all the blame upon me ; and all because of 
your pride and nonsense." 

" If there is so much business that one servant is not 
sufficient, pray why cannot you keep another?" said 
Elizabeth. " Oh ! " added she, falling into a violent fit 
of weeping, ^' when I left my dear, dear father's house, 
how little I thought of all I was to suffer ! " 

Her husband was always frightened when she went 
into hysterics, and he thought she was going^ into hyster- 
ics now ; besides, he was really good-natured. So he 
said, '' Well, well, child, I tell you what — I '11 see if I 
can't get another man, or boy, or lad, or something. 
So don't go and flurry yourself into those foolish fits 
now, for mercy's sake ! " 

Mr. Robinson, however, dared not venture to take 
this step, without writing to consult his uncle. And 
Mr. Sandford, in reply, strongly dissuaded him from 
any such expensive proceeding ; but he added, that 
in order to afford him some present relief, until he 
became more accustomed to business, his sister Re- 
becca -had offered, if he wished it, to come and stay a 
month or two at Hilsbury, and render them all the 
assistance in her power. " We can ill spare her," said 
the good uncle, " but I am willing to do everything in 
my power to encourage you : and in the meantime, as 
it must be a few weeks before slje can be with you, I 
shall expect, Frederick, that you make every possible 
exertion yourself, with regard to business." 

This offer Mr. Robinson very joyfully accepted ; and 
Mr. Edwards was prevailed upon to stay, upon the 
promise of an accomplished assistant in "my sister 
Becky." 



DISPLAY. 103 



CHAPTER XIV. 

But by this time Elizabeth's cheek had grown pale. 
She was unhappy without eclat : there was none to 
admire, none even to pity, none to wonder at her 
hard lot ; and she was deprived of all that had the 
power to gratify or to excite her. Irritated, impatient, 
and comfortless — a stranger to the balm of resignation 
— she sunk into despondency ; and the effect was soon 
visible in her altered appearance. 

After several days of feverish indisposition, she be- 
came so ill as to be confined to her room. And there 
she found herself alone indeed. Her husband was 
very sony to see her so ill ; but nursing, he thought, 
was women's business. He left that to the maid : 
and she was an unfeeling, selfish woman, who brought 
up her mistress's ill-made messes with gloomy looks, 
and frequent murmurings. 

It was towards the close of the third day Elizabeth 
had passed on her bed, that as she was lying feverish 
and comfortless — watching, in the dusk, the light of 
the blacksmith's shop flashing on the ceiling — she 
heard the door open gently ; so gently, that she was 
sure it could not be her maid. And in an instant she 
saw Emily at her bedside, her countenance glowing 
with health and cheerfulness ; and she said, 

'* Dear Elizabeth, I heard you were ill, and I am 
come to nurse you." 

Elizabeth started up without speaking a word ; and 
throwing her hot arms around Emily's neck, continued 
to weep a long time, with a plaintive, piteous weak cry, 
upon her bosom. 

'' Dear, dear Elizabeth 1 " said Emily. 

It was so long since she had heard the accents of 
kindness, that the soothing tones of Emily's voice 
quite overwhelmed her. 



I04 D IS PL A Y. 

" I did not think there was any one in the world that 
cared for me now," she said, at length. 

'' Oh, you have never been forgotten by yonr friends,''^ 
said Emily. " I should have come to see you long 
before this, if I had been sure you would have liked it. 
But we will not talk much to-night, dear Elizabeth ; let 
me try now to make you a httle comfortable," said she ; 
and taking off her hat and peHsse, she proceeded quietly 
to smooth the tumbled pillow, and restore the littered 
room to neatness and comfort. 

She next went, to prepare a cooling beverage for the 
night, into the disorderly kitchen ; where the maid and 
the shopman were carousing over a blazing fire. 

EHzabeth took readily, and with confidence, what 
Emily had made for her ; said it was *^ very pleasant ; " 
and soon after she sunk into a quiet sleep. 

Emily sat up with her friend that night j and when 
she had done all that was requisite for her, she went to 
the book-shelves for something to read. She first took 
down Elizabeth's morocco Bible ; and she sighed to 
see that it had the appearance of an unused book. 

- Emily, since they last parted, was improved in her 
appearance, but still more in her mind : it was now 
under the settled, habitual influence of religion. 

Her faults, though not extirpated, were subdued ; 
and her once uncertain virtues shone out with the 
steady light of Christian graces. Her good-nature was 
now charity : her sensibiHty, benevolence ; her modesty, 
humility ; her sprightliness, cheerfulness. 

She found that in many of her intellectual indul- 
gences there was much selfishness, and Httle use ; and 
her frequent abstractions from the common affairs of 
life had in great measure given place to a cheerful per- 
formance of its quiet duties, and a ready attention to 
the wants and interests of others. She had lost much 
of her romance, but her taste was rectified : she had 
fewer ecstasies, but more happiness. 



DISPLAY. 105 

For several days after Emily's arrival, Elizabeth con- 
tinued so ill that little conversation passed between 
them but what related to her present wants and suffer- 
ings. When she began to amend, the effects of her 
disorder, and the returning remembrance of her misfor- 
tunes, produced a state of irritable fretfulness, which 
Emily's invariable tenderness was unable to soothe ; 
and she repelled with peevishness, and almost \vith 
asperity, every effort to enhven her, or to engage her 
in conversation. 

Emily's eyes filled with tears, whenever she contem- 
plated the alteration that illness and unhappiness had 
made in her late blooming and brilliant countenance ; 
and she fervently wished and prayed, that her friend 
might be led to seek for that consolation, of which she 
still appeared to be wholly destitute. 

Having once the Bible open in her hand, Emily 
ventured to say, " Would you like me to read aloud 
a little while? " But Elizabeth looked at her reproach- 
fully, and said, " No, no, I cannot bear it ; pray do 
not disturb me ! " Emily shut the book, and gazed at 
her with heartfelt pity. 

One morning, as soon as she arose, Elizabeth's spirits 
revived on finding herself decidedly better ; for in spite 
of other trials, the first feelings of returning health w^ill 
be feelings of happiness. 

When Emily came in, she found her for the first 
time disposed to enter into conversation, and to tell 
her of her troubles : for when people begin suddenly 
to talk of their misfortunes, it is generally in consequence 
of some temporary alleviation of their pressure. 

" Oh, Emily ! " said she, '^ I have been too ill to talk 
to you ; but you do not know how unhappy I am. 
You see, indeed, what a situation I am in. What a 
situation ! Oh ! my happiness is sacrificed — sacri- 
ficed for ever ! " 

" Indeed I feel for you deeply, dear Elizabeth,'' said 



io6 DISPLAY. 

Emily, after hearing her expatiate upon her grievances. 
'^ How glad I should be if I could comfort you ! " 

" There is no comfort for me, Emily. Can there be 
anything in my circumstances that could possibly afford 
me the smallest degree of pleasure ? " 

'^Ykot pleasure y perhaps," replied Emily; /'but is it 
not possible to be happy — to be contented, at least — 
without pleasure ? " 

" Oh, do not take up my words," said Elizabeth ; 
" I really don't understand those nice distinctions. If 
you will not allow that I have cause to be miserable, it 
is because you never knew what it is to be unfortu- 
nate." 

" I know you have much need of patience and of 
resignation," said Emily;, "but, Elizabeth, I have my- 
self seen instances of people being really happy, who 
have had, perhaps, as much as you have to endure." 

" Yes, I know very well what you mean ; but as to 
rehgion, it would never, I am confident, make any 
particular difference to me, if I were to give myself 
ever so much concern about it. Now 5^ou are exactly 
the kind of person to be very religious ; and I am noft 
at all surprised that you view it in that particular kind 
of way that some people do." 

" Indeed you are mistaken," replied Emily ; " so 
far from being naturally disposed to it, it is impossible 
you should feel more averse to rehgion — real religion 
— than I did, or more difficulty in it; and I should 
always have remained as ignorant and as indifferent as 
I used to be, if God had not made me willing, and 
given me the desire to seek Him. And He will give 
it you if you ask for it : and then — oh, do beheve it, 
Elizabeth ! — then you would be happy ; happier a 
thousand times here, in this humble solitude, than all 
the splendors of the world could make you." 

" But even if I were ever so — so devotional, and all 
that," said Elizabeth, " I am persuaded it would only 



DISPLAY, 107 

continue so long as I am deprived of other things. I 
am certain I should never care particularly about 
religion, if I had anything else to take pleasure in." 

'' Yes, if you had once felt the happiness of loving 
and serving God, you would prefer it to all other pleas- 
ures," said Emily. 

" It may make some people happy, and it does you, 
I dare say," rephed EKzabeth ; " Sut as for me, I 
really do not believe it ever would. Indeed I feel a 
dislike to the thought of the thing ; and to confess the 
truth, I always did, even at the time that I was hearing 
and seeing so much of it." 

" And so did I — and so does every one," replied 
Emily, '' until a new heart and a right spirit is given ; 
and this is what we must pray for. But oh 1 do not 
let us talk of religion as a thing we may choose or 
refuse like an accomplishment, according to our 
particular taste. We must be religious, — we must 
come to Jesus Christ for salvation, and love God and 
His service, and learn not to love the world, — or we 
must perish. And what should prevent you ? God is 
not willing that any should perish." 

"I do assure you," said Elizabeth, after a short 
pause, " that sometimes since I have been in this 
miserable place, I have wished I were rehgious ; but I 
know that it is quite impossible I ever should be." 

"" Impossible ! oh, no ; it is impossible that such 
faint wishes should make you so ; but with God every- 
thing is possible ; and if you sincerely desire, and 
earnestly ask His help, you will receive it." 

''You do not know my heart," said Elizabeth; "it 
is very different from yours." 

*' If God had not promised to change the heart, I 
must have despaired as well as you ; but He will." 

" What, my heart? " said EUzabeth. 

During the latter part of this conversation, there was 
an appearance of sincerity and solicitude in Elizabeth 



io8 DISPLAY. 

that Emily had never observed in her on any former 
occasion. She did not, however, continue it much 
longer at that time, lest she should be wearied; but 
she was overjoyed to find that for the two or three fol- 
lowing days Elizabeth appeared wilhng, and almost 
anxious, to renew it. 

During this visit, Emily had many opportunities of 
observing the neglected and declining state of the busi- 
ness. She had even heard Mr. Robinson making some 
lazy complaints of the discouraging state of his affairs. 
In writing to her father she had mentioned this, and 
expressed an earnest wish that some situation could 
be devised for them that would be less irksome to 
Ehzabeth, and more likely to secure their permanent 
comfort. Very soon after, she had the satisfaction of 
receiving a letter from Mr. Grey, offering — provided 
it met with Mr. Robinson's approbation — to use his 
interest in endeavoring to procure for him the situation, 
then vacant, of superior clerk in a concern with which 
he was remotely connected. The salary, he said, was 
handsome, and the place considered respectable. An 
immediate answer was required, and Emily lost no 
time in submitting it to Mr. Robinson's consideration. 

Most people, and especially idle people, expect to 
be better by a change of circumstances, and he ac- 
cepted the offer without hesitation. 

Emily found Elizabeth employed in reading the 
Bible, when she entered her room to communicate the 
contents of this letter. 

" I am sorry to interrupt you," said she, " but here 
is something" — offering her the letter — ^^ that per- 
haps will give you a little pleasure." 

'^ My dear girl ! " cried Elizabeth, when she had 
hastily read it, " how shall I ever repay you and your 
dear, good father for this kindness ? Why this is the 
very thing for Robinson. Let me see — what does it 
say ? ' the place considered respectable ; ' that means 



DISPLAY. 109 

genteel of course. Oh, Emily/' said she, shutting the 
Bible, and rising briskly from her chair, ''I feel quite 
well and happy ! " 

" But recollect, it is still very uncertain," said Emily. 

" Not very uncertain, my dear, surely ; your father 
here speaks confidently, almost, does not he ? — ' think 
'it not unhkely my application may be successful.' " 

'* Not unhkely, but he is not at all sure, you see," 
said Emily. ^'I am almost sorry I told you now," 
added she, as she looked at Elizabeth's animated and 
eager countenance, in which the world had already 
regained its recently banished expression. 

" Dear, it would have been cruel not to have told 
me," said Elizabeth. 

" But if you should be disappointed," resumed 
Emily, " you would fiow, I hope, know how to submit, 
and where to seek consolation." 

" Yes, indeed, I hope I should," rephed Ehzabeth. 

"It is the only satisfaction," continued Emily, '^to 
commit such concerns cheerfully to Providence, know- 
ing they will be overruled for our real good ; it must, 
I should think, prevent all distressing anxiety." 

^^Very true," answered Elizabeth. "Emily," said 
she, after a short silence, " I wonder what your father 
means by ' a handsome salary ' — have you any idea, 
my dear, what it would be ? " 

"No, indeed, I never heard," said Emily, sighing : 
and she almost regretted that the appHcation had been 
made. 

Nothing was now talked of but the expected ap- 
pointment ; and Emily found, with deep concern, that 
it was in vain to attempt engaging Elizabeth in the 
conversations which had lately seemed to interest and 
affect her. She either answered with indifference, or, 
— what was still more painful to Emily, and discour- 
aged her most from attempting it, — she adopted her 
old artificial manner, in talking about religion. 



no DISPLAY. 

After only a week's suspense, a letter arrived from 
Mr. Grey, to inform them that his application in behalf 
of Mr. Robinson had been unsuccessful. 

Elizabeth was busy at her drawers examining some 
dresses, which till now had not seen the hght since she 
came to Hilsbury, when Emily, with a heavy heart, 
entered with her father's letter. She put it into her 
hand, and withdrew in silence. 

Mr. Robinson's disappointment was more vociferous, 
but less acute, than Elizabeth's. In her mind a rehsh 
for the world had been aroused too actively to subside 
again with the hopes that excited it. She was first 
stunned, then irritated, by the intelligence. She re- 
ferred again and again to the unwelcome letter ; but 
still the decisive words " unsuccessful application," left 
her nothing to hope. 

She had not learned to acquiesce in adversity, and 
at first refused to believe that she must actually submit 
to it. If this plan had failed, somethi7tg, she thought, 
might be done ; and her mind ranged with impatient 
ingenuity from scheme to scheme, as each appeared 
more impracticable than the former, — till at last she 
was compelled to believe, that there was nothing before 
her but submitting to present circumstances. When 
after a long train of thought she arrived at this conclu- 
sion, she again burst into a passionate fit of impatient 
sorrow. 

When Emily joined her, she did not attempt to offer 
ill-timed reflections ; they passed the greatest part of 
the day in silence ; and it was not till Elizabeth had 
recovered from the surprise of disappointment, that she 
began to recollect there was still one way of being happy 
that was not unattainable. How many are driven to 
religion as a last refuge, who would never have chosen 
it as the first good ! 

As they were sitting together in the evening, Eliza- 
beth broke a long silence by saying, in a voice between 
penitence and peevishness, 



DISPLA V. Ill 

*^ Is not this exactly what I told you — that I should 
never care about religion if I had. anything besides to 
take an interest in ? I have scarcely given it a thought 
the last week, Emily, and now what is there but that to 
comfort me? " 

'^ Oh, Ehzabeth ! then is not this a happy disappoint- 
ment? Be thankful that you were not abandojied to 
prosperity." 

''But now,'' said Elizabeth, "now that I have been 
again as unconcerned, and indifferent, and ungrateful 
as ever — how can I hope to be forgiven? " 

" God's ways are not like ours," answered Emily ; 
'' His invitations are made to the unconcerned and the 
ungrateful. But when we have refused to surrender 
our hearts to Him till they have made trial of every 
other object, it should make us more humble and more 
thankful, that He will at last accept such a worthless, 
ungenerous gift." 

The tears were starting in Elizabeth's eyes w^iile 
Emily was speaking ; and when a little more had passed, 
she thought it best to leave her alone, and silently with- 
drew. 

Elizabeth had sometimes said her prayers, but she 
had never p?'ayed ; and she now for the first time felt 
a real desire to do so. As soon as Emily was gone, 
she sunk down by the bedside ; she wept, but was un- 
able to utter a word, — overwhelmed with the strange, 
glowing feeling of sincerity, and with the new and 
mighty effort to express a deep, inward sentiment, to 
a Being invisible and hitherto wholly unknown. They 
who do not know that prayer is an effort requiring all 
the energies of body and mind, may question whether 
they ever have prayed. 

After a while, she knew not how long, Elizabeth rose 
up from her knees, exhausted, but yet relieved. 

When Emily returned to her, she was struck with an 
expression of meekness and reality in her countenance, 
that was not natural to it. 



112 DISPLAY. 

'^ Emily," said she, in a faltering voice, " I have been 
attempting to — pray ! but I cannot.'' 

^'Then I believe you have prayed, dear Elizabeth," 
said Emily. ' " It is only in real prayer that there is 
any difficulty. It was easy to say our prayers, as we 
used to do ; but now you feel the difference between 
that formal service and calling upon God in spirit and 
in truth." 

To EHzabeth, however, although a desire and a hope 
had suddenly sprung up in her mind, that gave her a 
new and strange sense of satisfaction, the difficulties in 
her way appeared at first insurmountable. Nor was it 
surprising that to a person of her character, religion, as 
it now appeared to her — an inward, heartfelt, all- 
pervading principle — should seem an almost unattain- 
able good. 

A single glance at its reality convinced her, that 
those things must be sacrificed to it from which she 
had ever derived her choicest gratifications. It was 
not so much that any particular pursuits were to be 
relinquished, — this had been the least and lightest 
sacrifice, — but the inmost recesses of her heart must 
yield up their long secreted idolatries. 



CHAPTER XV. • 

If EHzabeth's religion had expended itself in words 
and emotions, it would have been, as before, of a very 
doubtful character. But she soon gave the best evi- 
dence of its reality, by her anxiety to bring her daily 
conduct under its universal influence. She had, how- 
ever, at present much to subdue, and much to learn. 
She and Emily had many conversations on the subject 
of her future conduct. 



DISPLAY, 113 

" I believe/' said Elizabeth, as they were talking of 
these things one evening, " that I could be happy now 
in a cottage, almost in any situation, especially with a 
companion I could love ; but the business — the trade 
— I cannot tell you, Emily, how unpleasant it is to 
me ; only I hope I am now willing — more willing at 
least, to submit to what is unpleasant." 

" But in time," said Emily, '' may not you become 
almost reconciled even to this ? — especially if you 
could so far overcome your reluctance as to take an 
interest in it yourself; and you are so clever, and have 
so much taste, that — " 

" Dear, do you think so? " interrupted Elizabeth. 

" That I am sure," continued Emily, " Mr. Robinson 
would soon find an alteration in his affairs, if you were 
once to attend to them." 

" But then there 's Robinson ! Emily, you know I 
can?iot love him." 

" Cannot you? " said Emily. '^ But yet," added she, 
after a long pause, '^ I have thought sometimes, you 
might treat him with a little more respect and — kind- 
ness ; and then perhaps — " 

" I know it — yes, I know I ought ; and I will en- 
deavor," said she. And here the conversation ended; 
for the time was come which EHzabeth now regularly 
devoted to her evening retirement. 

She had learned the pleasure and privilege of daily 
" entering into her chamber, and shutting to the door ; " 
and it was there she could best fortify herself for any 
self-denying resolution. But in doing so, she was a 
wonder to herself. That she should find happiness in 
'such engagements, — that an hour spent in meditation 
and prayer should to her be the happiest of the day, — 

" Strange were those tones, to her those tears were strange, 
She wept, and wondered at the mighty change." 

That night Mr. Robinson came in to supper with a 
8 



114 DISPLAY. 

gloomy countenance. Everything was going wrong. 
Business dull, money scarce, Edwards saucy ; but what 
really oppressed him most of all was the weight of his 
own indolence. 

When Elizabeth came down from her room, she had 
evidently been in tears, but she did not look gloomy, 
and going towards her husband, she said. - 

" Are you tired to-night? " 

'^ Rather, my dear — not very, though, thank you," 
said he, unfolding his arms, and brightening up at the 
unexpected attention. 

While they were at supper, after two or three unsuc- 
cessful efforts to speak, Elizabeth at length said, 

''Mr. Robinson, you spoke to me some time ago 
about assisting you in the shop. I refused then, but 
now I have determined to do it ; and I intend to 
begin as soon " — and her voice faltered — ''as soon 
as I am well enough to stand in the cold.'' 

"Dear me! will you?" said her husband in un- 
feigned astonishment. 

But Elizabeth, overcome by the effort she had made, 
burst into tears, and could not reply. 

" But I would not have you to do it upon any ac- 
count, if it frets you thus," added he. 

" Oh, she is not fretting, " said Emily, " she likes it ; 
only " — and here she stopped, at a loss how to make 
Mr. Robinson comprehend why anybody should cry at 
what they like. 

" I shall be of very httle service at first," resumed 
Elizabeth, in a firmer voice ; " but I hope I shall learn 
in time ; and as your sister is coming, and you find 
Edwards so inattentive and troublesome, I think it 
would be best to part with him, and we will endeavor 
to manage the business among ourselves." 

" Well, I assure you I shall be glad enough to get rid 
of that idle dog, — that is, if you really intend it, my 
dear," said he. 



DISPLAY. IIS 

" Yes, I really intend it/' said Elizabeth. 

And she retired to rest this night, with a calm sense 
of self-approval that she had seldom known. It was 
the genuine pleasure with which most instances of self- 
denial are rewarded — the pure satisfaction of sacriiic- 
ing incHnation to principle. 

The next day, while they were at dinner, the stage 
coach, which once a week passed through the village, 
drove by their window ; and Mr. Robinson started up, 
exclaiming, 

" There 's my sister Becky ! " — and immediately 
set off to receive her. 

" I wonder what sort of a being she is," said Eliza- 
beth. 

^^ We shall soon see," said Emily. 

In a few minutes Mr. Robinson returned, laden with 
packages ; and introduced his sister to the ladies. 

Elizabeth held out her hand to one of far less deli- 
cate texture, and endeavored to receive her new 
relation with cordiality : but Miss Rebecca's first 
appearance was not prepossessing. She was a plain 
person, much marked wdth the small-pox, and appeared 
about forty years of age. Her dress was far from 
untidy ; but it showed that total deficiency of taste 
which is betrayed by some persons, w^ho without much 
ambition to be smart, would yet fain appear a little 
like other people : besides, she' was now in her travel- 
ling deshabille. But when she spoke, there was a 
softness in her voice, and a propriety in her mode of 
expressing herself, that instantly made a favorable im- 
pression. 

For a person in Miss Rebecca's circumstances to 
conduct herself with exact propriety towards such a 
sister-in-law as EHzabeth, would not appear very easy ; 
but she seemed to understand this secret to perfection. 
There was a certain independence in her character, 
that made her feel at ease, and enabled her to retain her 



Ii6 DISPLAY. 

self-possession on every occasion. Although fulty con- 
scious of her own inferiority in those respects, she was 
not to be overawed by such things as w^ealth, beauty, 
or elegance in others. Her behavior was uniformly 
obliging, courteous, and respectful; but it was never 
servile — never for a moment — to the grandest car- 
riage customer that ever entered her uncle's shop. 

EKzabeth took some pains to check the feeling of 
contemptuous pity, which the first appearance of her 
new relation had excited. 

But she soon found that this effort was quite unnec- 
essary. A person of good nature, sound sense, and 
consistent piety — and who makes no absurd preten- 
sions — is not so easily despised as people may imag- 
ine. Miss Rebecca answered this description ; and 
Elizabeth had not spent many hours in her society, 
before she found that she absolutely commanded her 
respect. 

As they became better acquainted, Elizabeth and 
Emily were surprised to perceive how far removed she 
was from vulgar ignorance. This discovery, however, 
was not made by her introducing the names of all the 
books, and quoting all the authors she could recollect, 
on the first day of her arrival, but by the general supe- 
riority and intelligence of her conversation. 

She had been in the habit of reading as much as her 
engagements would permit, from the honest desire of 
improving her mind, not with the most remote inten- 
tion of making it a subject of vulgar boast. In the 
course of her hfe she had waited upon many a well- 
dressed superciHous customer, to whom it would have 
been in her power to have imparted some useful in- 
formation ; but she never felt disposed to make an 
unbecoming advantage of her acquisitions. If her 
mind was superior to her station, it did not disqualify 
her for its duties, nor lead her to despise them ; for 
her little stock of knowledge had been turned to the 



D IS PL A V. 117 

best account ; it had made her not vain, but wise — 
not ridiculous, but respectable. 

There was no one who ever had so much influence 
over Frederick Robinson as his sister. While he was 
at his uncle's he was continually embroiled in some 
dispute with his cousins, or the apprentices, or the 
servants. A consciousness of his own weakness made 
him exceedingly tenacious of his rights and privileges, 
and jealous of his dignity : so that he was always imag- 
ining the one invaded, and the other insulted. In 
these disputes his sister Rebecca was the universal 
peacemaker ; every one was willing to appeal to her ; 
and even Frederick would submit to her decisions. 

Since- her arrival he had been unusually attentive to 
business ; and the scraping of the violin was rarely 
heard till shop was shut in the evening. Indeed, in 
three days after she came, everything wore a different 
aspect. Without bustle or parade, her pervading man- 
agement had restored order in the counting-house, the 
shop, and the kitchen. Her attentive and obliging 
manner to the customers w^as soon noised abroad ; 
and ma.ny who had been offended by the neglect of 
the master, and impertinence of the man, began to 
return. 

Elizabeth was not more agreeably disappointed in 
her sister-in-law, than Miss Rebecca w^as in her. She 
listened with tears of joy, while Emily related the 
change which had recently taken place in her friend's 
mind ; and Emily was rejoiced, when she became 
acquainted with her character, to commit EHzabeth's 
yet weak and fluctuating principles to her superinten- 
dence. Young as she herself was in Christian knowl- 
edge, she was glad to be relieved from the burden of 
such responsibility, and to consign it to one on whose 
experience and judicious management she could so well 
rely. 

When she had done this, Emily took leave of Hils- 



Ii8 DISPLAY, 

bury ; her heart glowing with joy and gratitude, as she 
contemplated the unexpected issue of her visit. 

Elizabeth, who had dreaded the familiarity of a 
vulgar relation, was the more touched by the true 
dehcacy of Miss Rebecca's manner towards her. A 
fair form and delicate complexion — much as one 
might wish to beheve it — are not the invariable indica- 
tions of a delicate mind ; while it often happens that this 
jewel is concealed within a plain, ungraceful exterior. 

When Elizabeth witnessed how much might be 
effected by activity and management, she was strength- 
ened in her determination to remain no longer a useless 
incumbrance in her own household : and having made 
an ingenuous confession of her ignorance, she requested 
to be instructed in all the mysteries of domestic 
economy. Miss Rebecca undertook this task with 
perfect simpHcity. She took great pains in instructing 
her, without suffering her to feel it a mortification to be 
taught. 

Emily had not flattered her, in saying that Elizabeth 
was clever. Her talents had hitherto been exercised 
to one unproductive end ; but now she felt the pleas- 
ure of exerting them usefully and honorably ; and she 
made rapid progress, not only in the attainment of 
those things of which she might feel ashamed of being 
ignorant, but also in her knowledge of the business, 
her ignorance of which was no disgrace. 

It required, however, an effort — and an effort of 
something better than philosophy — on the morning 
she went in to take her first lesson behind the counter. 
Still pale from the effects of her recent illness, she 
appeared, wrapped in a large shawl ; but as she entered 
the shop, a deep glow passed over her cheeks. Miss 
Rebecca did not feel less on this occasion than Eliza- 
beth, but she contrived to be quite engaged at the 
time with a customer, and did not seem to notice her 
as she walked round and took her station by her side. 



DISPLAY. 119 

A country girl happened to come in at the same in- 
stant, who, addressing herself to Miss Rebecca, said, 

"I want a yard and three-quarters of — your ser- 
vant, miss," said she, perceiving Elizabeth, and drop- 
ping a courtesy. 

"What did you want, pray?" said Elizabeth, 
graciously. 

While she was showing the article inquired for, 
Elizabeth observed that her customer's attention was 
diverted from that to herself. She was glancing at 
her, and at her dress ; and seemed admiring the white 
hands that were unrolling the ribbons, still more than 
the bright, glossy articles themselves. When Elizabeth 
had dismissed her first customer, she whispered with a 
smile to Miss Rebecca, " Really it 's not half so disa- 
gi-eeable as I expected ! " 

Elizabeth's good principles were too recently im- 
planted to have attained the force of habits ; and she 
found a constant reference to them necessary upon 
every fresh occasion. The exercise of patience, self- 
denial, forbearance, humility, was new and difficult. 
Indeed, had other dispositions, or better education, 
rendered them of easier attainment, the strength and 
reality of her piety had been less apparent. It was in 
no instance more so than in her conduct towards her 
husband. She was solicitous not only to fulfil her 
ordinary duties towards him, but to win him to partake 
of that happiness which she herself enjoyed. 

"If religion," she said, "w^ere to do as rnuch for 
him as it has for me, we might be most happy to- 
gether." And it was especially with this view that she 
endeavored to subdue the constant propensity she felt 
to treat him with harshness or indifference. 

" That tiresome violin ! " said she, one evening, as 
they caught its distant sound from the counting-house. 

''I must say, however," said his sister, "that he 
does not suffer it to be very troublesome to us ; I do 
not remember ever seeing it brought into the parlor." 



I20 DISPLAY. 

" No, I confess he has never done that/' said Eliza- 
beth. 

" Do you think/' she resumed, after a long silence, 
" do you think he would be pleased if I were some- 
times to ask him to play to me ? " 

" That he would, I am certain," said his sifter. 

That her resolution might not have time to relax, 
she went out immediately, and opening the door of 
the counting-house, said, good-naturedly, 

" Mr. Robinson, you keep it all to yourself; why 
don't you come and play to us sometimes?" 

" Dear me ! I am sure I had no idea you would 
like to hear me play ; why it 's what I should like of 
all things," said he, gathering up the music-books, and 
proceeding briskly to the parlor. 

^' What shall I play to you now?" said he, in high 
good- humor, "' anything you like, only say." 

His sister chose something she thought Elizabeth 
would prefer; and Elizabeth, pleased with herself, 
found her spirits enlivened even by her husband's bad 
fiddhng ; and the evening passed more cheerfully than 
usual. 

Accustomed to be despised, and to be thwarted, he 
was always particularly gratified by any mark of atten- 
tion or compliance ; and a little such kindness and 
consideration produced the happiest effects upon his 
temper. It was in this way — and it was the only one 
practicable — that his sister recommended Elizabeth to 
attempt to acquire an influence over him. He had 
always been proud of his wife, and would have loved 
her, after his manner, if she would have permitted it ; 
and now that her conduct towards him was so much 
altered, he began to be "very fond of her indeed." 

Miss Rebecca did not offer to leave Hilsbury till she 
had the satisfaction of seeing her brother's affairs in a 
very different state to that in which she had found 
them. The business was increasing; he himself ap- 



DISPLAY. 121 

peared disposed to take some interest in it; and as 
Tor Elizabeth, she was become both willing and able to 
superintend and conduct their concerns. 

But she had derived still more important advantages 
from her sister's society. Herself an experienced 
Christian, she had led Elizabeth on step by step, as 
she' was able to bear it, till she saw her making real 
progress both in the knowledge and practice of 
religion. 

Having thus spent three useful months with them, 
she was at length obliged to take leave. They parted 
with mutual affection and regret; and Elizabeth was 
left alone to manage her house, her business, her hus- 
band, and — herself 



CHAPTER XVI. 

One morning in the spring, a carriage stopped at 
Mr. Robinson's door. 

Emily was the first who sprang out of it ; and she 
was followed by the whole party from Stokely. 

Elizabeth colored high as she advanced from behind 
the counter to receive them. But their easy, affec- 
tionate salutation quickly relieved her embarrassment. 
She led the way to her little parlor. Mr. Leddenhurst, 
as he followed her, looked neither to , the right hand 
nor the left, but steered his way through the piles of 
goods that stood in the shop, and stooped beneath the 
festoons of drapery that decorated the passage door, 
as though he saw them not. 

As this narrative is so near its conclusion, it may be 
imagined that the Leddenhursts were come to an- 
nounce to Elizabeth some sudden change of fortune ; 
or, perhaps, to make her a present of one : — but no ; 



122 DISPLAY. 

they were only come for the pleasure of seeing her — 
for the pleasure of seeing Elizabeth happy in obscurity.* 

They were affected by the striking alteration in her 
whole appearance since they last met, simple in her 
dress, almost artless in her manner, the once restless 
and ambitious turn of her countenance succeeded by a 
subdued and tranquil expression. As Miss Weston sat 
gazing on her, her eyes filled with tears, in spite of her 
efforts to restrain them. 

The good opinion Elizabeth had once so unsuccess- 
fully practised to win^ was now spontaneously yielded. 
She had never in former times received such gratifying 
expressions of their regard. It was not, as she had 
dreaded, the affability of condescension to her reduced 
station, but the open, cordial aspect of friendship and 
esteem. 

Their visit was prolonged to several hours, and they 
had much conversation with EHzabeth; who, when 
the first feeling of constraint had worn off, spoke of 
herself and her situation without reserve. This af- 
forded them an opportunity of observing more minutely 
the real change that had taken place in her character. 
Their expectations were not disappointed, because 
they were not raised unreasonably high. They did not 
expect to find propensities and habits of twenty years' 
growth completely extirpated in the course of a few 
months, even under the influence of the most potent 
of all principles. 

In Elizabeth's present retirement, there was, indeed, 
httle temptation or opportunity to display, if that 
word be understood in its commonest import ; but 
there is no retirement, except that of the grave, where 
the infirmities of human nature may not find oppor- 
tunity to exhibit themselves. 

Pride is rather provoked than checked by degrada- 
tion, and never was vanity cheated into humility by 
being placed in the shade. Elizabeth still found no 



DISPLAY. 123 

duty she had to perform was so difficult, no act of self- 
denial so painful, as to watch, detect, and subdue it ; 
especially in the new and more subtle forms in which 
it now frequently assailed her. But it was no longer a 
studied and cherished indulgence. Philosophy might 
have enabled her to detect, and pride to conceal it : 
but it was reHgion that had taught her to lament it as 
a sin, and to resist it as an enemy. 

They found her even more reconciled to her condi- 
tion than they had hoped. Time had aheady worn off 
the edge of mortification. She was no longer sur- 
prised, or shocked, to find herself where, and what, 
she was. She took an interest in her employments ; 
and was alive to the honest pleasure of successful 
management. Besides, she was occupied: and the 
busy cannot, if they would, be as discontented as the 
idle. Employment, that second grand secret of happi- 
ness, had contributed more than anything, except the 
first, to reconcile her to her circumstances. Above 
all, she had inward peace ; and a hope, that was better 
to her than either the vain pleasures or real comforts 
of hfe. It was " a hope, full of immortality ; " and 
enabled her " in whatever state she was, therewith to 
be content." 

During their visit, Elizabeth took her friends over 
her neat, orderly house ; and into her pretty, retired 
garden, which was now looking gay with spring flowers. 

"You would be surprised," said she, "to see how 
many little pleasures I have now ; — and that from 
things which I never took any real pleasure in before. 
Even my taste is improved by religion. I am not so 
selfish — so engrossed in" — but here she checked 
herself, and began to speak of something else. Talk- 
ing of herself, she observed, was particularly hazardous ; 
and she found it a good rule never to do so — not 
even to speak of her faults unless it was unavoidable. 

While Mr. Leddenhurst and Mr. Robinson were 



124 DISPLAY, 

gone aside to transact some business, Elizabeth and 
her friends conversed still more unreservedly. " I 
assure you," said she, looking on the carpet, ''\ am 
happier in all respects than I ever expected to be. 
Mr. Robinson is really much more — much less — 
much improved. Dear Emily," she added, " I often, 
very often, think of that dreary, feverish night, when 
you came to nurse and comfort me : from that I date 
all my happiness ! " 

^' Let us rather both think, " said Emily, " of that 
happy day that brought our friends to Stokely ; it is to 
them we both owe everything that is good." 

"We can all now," said Miss Weston, "look back 
to the time when we were unacquainted with God, and 
with ourselves, — when religion was uninteresting to 
us ; and to whatever circumstances we may trace the 
wondrous change, let us acknowledge Him as the sole 
and gracious author of it." 

" And now, sir," said Mr. Leddenhurst, when they 
returned to the ladies, " we hope to prevail upon you 
to part with Mrs. Robinson, before long, to pay us a 
visit at Stokely." 

"To be sure I will," replied he, " with a great deal 
of pleasure, Mr. Leddenhurst; she deserves a Httle 
recreation now, as well as any woman in the world ; 
and I '11 be bound to say, that there 's no place what- 
ever where it would give Mrs. Robinson so much 
pleasure to pay a visit." 

" It would, indeed, give me a great deal of pleasure," 
said Elizabeth ; " I have nowhere such kind friends. 
I should like, too, to visit Broadisham once again, — 
if it were only to think of all that has passed since I 
last drove out of it." 

"Ah, that was on our wedding-day," said her 
husband. 

" Then you will come, my dear," said Mrs. Led- 
denhurst. 



DISPLAY, 125 

" Yes, she has promised," said Emily. 

Her friends now took an affectionate leave of Eliza- 
beth. Before the carriage drove off, they all looked 
out at her as she stood by her husband's side at the 
shop-door. There was a tear in her eye, but she 
strove to conceal it ; and her countenance shone with 
content. 

"This is a sight," said Mr. Leddenhurst, "worth 
coming more than fifteen miles to see : — the sub- 
jugation of a propensity that I had almost thought 
incurable ; and I believe that nothing but religion will 
cure the love of — display." 



> 



A DAY'S PLEASURE. 



One fine May morning a large party of young 
people, of which I was one, set off for the purpose of 
viewing a nobleman's seat at some miles' distance. 
This was an excursion to which we had for some time 
been looking forward with much pleasure. It had 
been long promised us, and the day fixed more than 
once ; but the weather, or some other untoward cir- 
cumstance, had hitherto disappointed us. But now 
every obstacle was removed, the party assembled, and 
when, after many presages of bad weather, with which 
some of the least sanguine and more experienced of 
our number had alarmed us the night before, — when, 
after all these forebodings, the carriages drew up, and 
we found ourselves safely seated and driving off, there 
was not an eye that did not sparkle with pleasure. 

The morning was bright and promising. Who does 
not know — who, at least, does not remember — how 
unusually blue and bright the sky appears on a 
holiday morning? The fields were yet sparkling with 
dew-drops. Some early husbandmen, going forth to 
their work, saluted us as we passed. The lark sang 
merrily over our heads. There was not a cloud — no, 
not one, to be seen from east to west. Oh, it was a 
lovely morning ! We were in open carriages ; which 
was the more agreeable as the first part of our road, 
especially, lay through a most delightful country, richly 



A DAY'S PLEASURE. 1 27 

cultivated, and now all covered with the verdure of 
spring. We were, as nciay be imagined, in the highest 
spirits, and laughed we knew not why. When the first 
glow of happiness, occasioned by setting off, had sub- 
sided, we began to expatiate on the expected pleasures 
of the day. The place of our destination was one of 
the finest seats for many miles round. We had heard 
it talked of very often ; but none of us young ones had 
yet seen it. Most of the beauties and curiosities had 
been described to us, and on these our imaginations 
fixed with dehghted anticipation ; — the grotto ; the 
hot-houses, with their rare collection of foreign plants ; 
the picture-gallery ; and, above all, the curious old 
tapestry hangings, w^hich decorated one of the apart- 
ments, and which were esteemed the greatest curiosity 
of the place. Then there was the fine Belvidere at the 
top of the hill, which commanded, we were told, a 
most extensive prospect. You might from thence see 
five counties : and on a very clear day you might just 
distinguish Gloucester Cathedral. '' Well, we could 
not have a clearer day than this," said we : " so we 
shall see five counties, and Gloucester Cathedral ! *' 
Thus we went chatting along. 

But we had scarcely reached the third mile-stone, 
before our pleasure was greatly damped by the indis- 
position of one of our party. She had risen with the 
headache, but strove to conceal it. However, it be- 
came so much worse with the motion of the carriage 
that she was quite unable to proceed : so with great 
reluctance we were obliged to leave her at a friend's 
house, which stood by the roadside. This misfortune 
cast a gloom upon us during the gi-eater part of the 
ride. She was one of the most lively and intelligent of 
our whole party ; there was not one but could have been 
better spared. However, as we drew near the end of 
our journey our spirits revived, and our regret for the 
loss of our companion gradually subsided. 



128 A DAY'S PLEASURE, 

But now a new cause of uneasiness arose. A few 
rather threatening clouds had for some time been gath- 
ering in the southwest, which the elder part of the 
company regarded with an anxious eye. We young 
ones, however, were persuaded they would soon pass 
off; and as they began to gather overhead, we declared 
that we should prefer it being cloudy .during the heat 
of the day. " Yes, it would be much pleasanter ! " 
Just as I said the word, I felt a large drop of rain upon 
my cheek, which was quickly followed by many more ; 
and now the most sanguine of us took the alarm. When 
we were yet a mile from the place of our destination, a 
soaking shower came on, to which, being without any 
shelter, we were completely exposed. Still, we tried 
to laugh at our misfortunes, — • till, upon approaching 
the place, the rain fell with redoubled violence ; and as 
we galloped up the avenue, it ran streaming off in 
spouts and torrents from our hats and parasols. We 
had, therefore, little inclination to look about us. The 
first thing, as soon as we arrived, was to beg the charity 
of the servants ; and we were completely occupied, for 
a full hour, in drying our clothes, and refitting, before a 
large fire in the housekeeper's parlor. By the time 
this was done, and we had partaken of some refresh- 
ments, we began to make ourselves so merry with the 
adventure that some of us thought we gained as much 
in fun as we lost in sunshine. 

It still rained ; so giving up all thoughts of an excur- 
sion without, for the present, we proceeded to view the 
apartments. They were splendid indeed, and we were 
delighted. For my own part, the only thing that pre- 
vented my being quite as much so as I expected was, that 
my exposure to the rain had brought on a slight tooth- 
ache ; it was not violent, but yet just enough to take off 
the edge of my enjoyment. I went about holding a 
handkerchief to my face ; and when any of my com- 
panions pointed me to anything remarkable, I could 



A DAY'S PLEASURE. 129 

only nod assent, and smile somewhat piteously. Upon 
inquiring for the tapestry hangings, we were informed 
that they were always taken down when the family was 
absent ; they had been removed only the day before. 

The continuance of the rain, while it prevented our 
expected ramble about the grounds, yet afforded us an 
opportunity of examining more at leisure the curiosities 
within. With this consideration we consoled ourselves. 
When we had viewed every apartment, and fully satis- 
fied our curiosity, we were joined in the picture-gallery 
by the old house-steward, a venerable man, who, as he 
told us, had served the family for upwards of fifty years. 
He presently began recounting to us some of the family 
history, and many amusing anecdotes, pointing with 
his staff to the portraits of those to whom they related. 
"This," said he, " is poor Lady Susan, who died when 
she was only seventeen. And there is old Sir James, 
taken when he was a child, playing with his favorite 
spaniel. He was the present Earl's great-grandfather." 
We were much amused with this antiquated man and 
his stories j and agreed it compensated to us for not 
seeing the tapestry. 

It was now grov/ing late in the afternoon. We had 
given up all hope of reaching the Belvidere, and view- 
ing the gardens ; and were still lingering about the 
picture-room, when suddenly a bright golden beam of 
sunshine broke into the apartment. It streamed down 
the long gallery, and lighted up the pale faces and 
faded draperies of the old brown portraits, from one end 
to the other. An exclamation of joy burst at the same 
instant from the whole party. We hastened to the 
windows ; already a broad line of bright sky appeared 
along the horizon ; the clouds were dispersing in all 
directions ; the rain had nearly ceased ; and the heavy 
clouds that were rolHng off on the opposite side exhib- 
ited a brilliant rainbow. By the time we were equipped 
for our ramble, all was clear overhead ; it was a beauti- 



130 A DAY'S PLEASURE, 

ful evening. The grass was wet to the foot, and the 
trees were yet dropping with rain ; but all was fresh, 
green, and sparkling. Once again our spirits revived : 
it was not, indeed, the lively, bounding joy with which 
we set off in the morning, but a more serene and 
chastened feeling. 

We now visited the grotto, the gardens, and hot- 
houses. It was but a hasty inspection, as the ground 
was so wet that we were fearful of lingering ; we were 
anxious, too, to reach the Belvidere before sunset. At 
length, with wet shoes and weary steps, we climbed the 
hill. The exhalations which were now rising in conse- 
quence of the heavy rain, in a great degree obscured 
the prospect, but at the same time added to its bril- 
liancy ; for, being illumined by the setting sun, the 
whole wide expanse of country which the height com- 
manded, was, as it were, one flood of golden mist. The 
five counties we had thought so much of, were not 
indeed so distinctly discernible as we had seen them 
on the map ; however, our attendant pointed to each, 
and we believed that there they were. As for the 
Cathedral, we were obliged to take it for granted that it 
lay in the direction of the guide's walking stick. We 
waited a few minutes to see the sun set behind the 
distant hills ; it was a splendid scene ; and, as he assured 
us, was almost as fine a sight as the Cathedral. 

We now descended the hill, very well satisfied ; and, 
being by this time considerably fatigued, were not sorry 
to find ourselves reseated in the carriages, and on our 
way home. The evening continued fine, but chilly ; 
and the latter part of the way it was very dark. At 
first we talked over our adventures ; but some of the 
party soon dropped to sleep, and conversation flagged 
with the rest. We were weary, and our heads ached. 
I question if anything we had seen during the whole 
day afforded us more real pleasure than the sight of 
the cheerful lights in our own house, as we approached 



A BAY'S PLEASURE. 131 

it. We were certainly pleased with our excursion, not- 
withstanding its misfortunes ; and yet I believe, had it 
been proposed to us to set off on a similar expedition 
the next day, we should none of us have been disposed 
to comply. The friend we left ill by the way, we found 
quite restored. She had spent the day at home very 
happily ; and when she heard of our misfortunes, was 
glad she had escaped them. We were all thankful to 
retire to rest that night. The next morning at break- 
fast, at grandpapa's request, I related the adventures of 
the day. His reflections upon our excursion — to in- 
troduce which is my only reason for troubling the 
reader with this recital — shall be the subject of a fol- 
lowing paper. 



REFLECTIONS ON A DAY'S PLEASURE. 

Grandpapa, having listened with great attention to 
the foregoing recital, and to our various animadver- 
sions upon it, began as follows : — 

" I am an old man, children ; and my day's pleasure 
is so nearly over that I am well able to compare it with 
yours. Our short life is but like a long day ; and when 
I recollect the alternations of hope and fear, of success 
and disappointment, of pleasure and of pain, that have 
checkered the greater part of it, — the storms that I 
have seen blow up, and blow over, — the serenity of 
its decline, and the hopes I entertain of arriving, before 
long, at a safe and comfortable home, — I must say 
that my day has so much resembled yours, that what 
you have related has seemed like a relation of my own 
history. And since there has been nothing remarkable 
to distinguish my life from that of other men ; since I 
have, undoubtedly, had my full share of success, pros- 



132 REFLECTIONS ON 

perity, and enjoyment, I think I may fairly regard it, 
not only as a counterpart to my own life in particular, 
but to life in general. Or, to come to the conclusion 
I intended, that you, dear children, may consider your 
excursion as a fair specimen of what you have to expect 
in the day of life ; — so that the experience of this one 
day, may serve as a sample of all the rest. ' 

" Here you are, all in fine spirits, just setting out on 
your journey. It is yet early morning with you ; the 
sun is up, and the sky clear ; the road fine and flow- 
ery j and yet, pleasures in prospect rather than those 
at present possessed, are the chief sources of your 
felicity. The first circumstance that occurred yester- 
day to damp your pleasure was the loss of one of 
your party. Now, this is a misfortune which may be 
certainly expected early in the journey of life. Of 
a company of young people beginning life together, 
and hoping to pursue their course hand in hand, how 
commonly does it happen that one and another are 
stopped in their career, leaving their companions to 
pursue the journey without them ! And as it was 
with you, so it generally happens, that those who 
are taken are the loveliest, the liveliest, — those 
whose society can be least spared, and who must 
be the most regretted. Such a breach spoils our 
pleasure for a time ; but time, as you found it, and 
the new scenes that present themselves at every turn, 
reconcile us to the loss ; till at length it is httle felt, 
perhaps, rarely remembered. 

^^The place of your destination, and its various 
curiosities, which you were so eager to see, may repre- 
sent those favorite schemes and projects which we are 
apt to lay out for ourselves in life, and to which our 
chief hopes and efforts are directed. All goes on fair 
for a time ; we are in the direct road to our wishes ; 
but just as we come within sight of them, the clouds 
begin to gather, and down comes the storm, when, 



A DAY'S PLEASURE. 133 

perhaps, we are driving straight up to their accom- 
plishment. They who have marked well the ways 
of Providence, must have observed, that our earthly 
aims and wishes are oftener thus damped and embit- 
tered to us, than entirely frustrated. We are suffered 
to attain the object, but something unforeseen occurs 
to check the satisfaction we had expected in it. Now 
it is that our spirits sink, and we are ready to think 
our day's pleasure quite spoiled. But, like yours, 
it frequently happens that some unexpected alleviation, 
some little unforeseen circumstance attending our 
calamities, renders them supportable. Our very sur- 
prise ' at finding things not so bad to bear as we 
had expected, often amounts to positive pleasure. 

" Well, you saw the apartments, and were upon the 
whole very well pleased. And thus it is, that we are 
generally indulged with a moderate share of the com- 
mon comforts and enjoyments of life. We do not, per- 
haps, see the tapestry. That is, some particular gratifi- 
cation on which our hearts were most set is withheld. 
Now, while walking through the apartments, is the busy 
part of life ; and, notwithstanding some disappoint- 
ments, our satisfaction would be considerable, if it 
were not for a something, like your toothache, my 
dear, to take off its edge. Nothing could more 
aptly represent the continual uneasiness occasioned 
by the little daily crosses of life, too trifling to be 
seriously complained of. And this is not my testi- 
mony alone ; the accumulated experience of ages 
will attest that some such nameless sources of dis- 
satisfaction ever attend upon all our pursuits and 
undertakings, and mingle even with our holiday 
pleasures. 

'^ It was a fine morning ; but it rained all day. Ah ! 
this is like life. You may not think it, children ; but 
I know it. Yet this very circumstance, it seems, was 
productive of some advantage. Thus every wise and 



134 REFLECTIONS ON 

good man will look back on seasons of adversity, and 
acknowledge that it was good for him to have passed 
through them. When you had given up all hope of 
fine weather, you were suddenly surprised with a ray 
of sunshine. Thus are some of the heaviest storms 
of life suddenly dispersed; not in the time and 
manner that we had expected, but in such a way 
as we could not have calculated upon. You did, 
therefore, at last, view the grounds, and climb the hill ; 
but it was late in the day, with wet shoes and in 
haste. Just as we are often not permitted to arrive 
at the summit of our desires until the decline of Hfe, 
when it can be possessed but for' a short time, and 
when our capacities for enjoyment are greatly weak- 
ened. You reached the Belvidere, and had an 
indistinct view of the five counties ; but that circum- 
stance, which you had so long anticipated, disappointed 
your expectations ; and as for the cathedral, it was 
not to be seen at all. Thus when we are permitted 
to reach the height of our wishes, the result is sure to 
disappoint us. Our imaginations had painted it too 
gayly ; and our chief satisfaction arises, not so much 
from the success of our scheme, as from some simple 
circumstance attending it, which, like the fine glowing 
sunset, was unthought of in our calculation. 

'' You were cheered by the sudden fineness of the 
evening, and the late accomplishment of your hopes ; 
but, like the chastened tranquillity of age, your cheer- 
fulness was of a very different character from the 
lightsome, joyous spirits of the morning. 

" After all, though you had some entertainments upon 
the whole, yet, if you had the offer of going over the 
same events to-day, you would not feel disposed to 
accept it. Now, this is what I, and every one, I be- 
lieve, of my age, must say of our day's pleasure. 
Could our youth be renewed like the eagle's, yet we 
should decline the offer, if it must be upon the con- 



A DAY'S PLEASURE. I3S 

dition of living over again all the vicissitudes and anx- 
ieties, all the sorrows and sins of the past. Wearied 
even with pleasure, you were glad to set off on your 
return home. The evening was chilly and dark ; and 
you were more disposed to sleep than to converse. 
This, as you see in your poor old grandfather, is not 
unlike the condition and infirmities of old age. 

^' Thus far our comparison is pretty exact ; and well 
will it be for us if it need not stop here. The sight of 
home at last, gave you, perhaps, more true pleasure 
than anything you had seen in the day. And there 
are some who can say the same of the long home to 
which they are hastening. All are, more or less, 
weary of life and need rest : yet, how many shrink 
from, and at last come short of it. You had a kind 
father to receive you, and a comfortable home; and 
the companion you dropped at the commencement of 
your journey was ready to welcome your return. And 
if it should be thus with us at the end of the day of 
life, it will signify little, indeed, what accidents befall 
us by the way. ' In our Father's house are many 
mansions.' * There is a rest remaining for the people 
of God.' And there, many dear friends who are gone 
before await our arrival. They regret not that they 
were stopped short in their course, but, like your friend, 
rejoice that they got safe home so early, and thus 
escaped all the misfortunes of the road. 

'^ Your day's pleasure is now over : and you all feel 
that the little accidents which disconcerted you yester- 
day, are of no consequence at all to-day. You can 
now smile at its misfortunes ; and as for its pleasures, 
they are past^ and are now nothing to you. But 
suppose you had found no home to return to ; or an 
uncomfortable one, exposed to the weather, and filled 
with bad, quarrelsome company ! Of how much 
greater value is the smallest convenience and comfort 
you enjoy here, because it is to last for years, than all 



13^ REFLECTIONS ON A DAY'S PLEASURE, 

the pleasures of that one day, put together ! Or sup- 
pose that from morning to night it had been one con- 
tinued storm ; suppose you had not been able to reach 
the place of your destination at all ; that niany^ instead 
of one, of your company had been left behind ; that 
your carriages had broken down, and every other mis- 
fortune had befallen you that can be imagined, — what 
then? Your day's pleasure would have been spoiled, 
it is true ; but it was only a day, and now all is over. 
Now, this is just the state of the case with regard to 
time and eternity ; only the comparison falls far short 
of the truth. They who, devoted to the pleasures of 
this life, take no care to ensure an entrance into that 
rest, act infinitely more unwisely than you would have 
done, if, for the sake of enjoying that one day's recrea- 
tion, you had left your house to be overrun with rob- 
bers, or destroyed by fire ; knowing that upon your 
return at night, you would have no shelter, no home, 
no father to receive you. 

'' But is it true that our youthful hopes are so falla- 
cious ; that there are so many drawbacks to our pleas- 
ure ; and that there is so large a mixture of pain ? 
What does this teach us ? First, not to give life a wrong 
name. After all, it is not a day of pleasu7'e^ but a day 
of business. We came into life, not to please ourselves, 
but to do the will of Him that sent us ; and especially, 
' to work out our salvation with fear and trembling. ' 
Again, we should learn hereby ' not to set our affec- 
tions on things below.' It is to teach us this lesson, 
which we are slow to learn, that so many trials are al- 
lotted us. Our Heavenly Father does not wilHngly 
afflict and disappoint us. He does it in mercy, to 
wean us from the world to which we cling. We 
should also learn, by the disappointments attending our 
schemes, not to desire to order our own lot in life ; 
since we cannot foresee how they will succeed, nor 
what will most promote our welfare. Let us leave it 



LUCY'S WISHES, 137 

to Him, who sees the end from the beginning, and 
who will then cause ' all things to work together for 
our good.' Above all, let us learn to care less for 
the things of time, and more for those of eternity. Do 
not our years pass like ' a tale that is told ' ? Let us 
therefore fear, lest a promise being given us of enter- 
ing into His rest, any of us should seem to come short 
of it." 

Thus grandpapa concluded his discourse ; which, 
thinking it might prove instructive to others as well as 
to ourselves, I have, as I promised, transcribed for the 
perusal of the reader. 



LUCY^S WISHES. 

Lucy had been standing one afternoon for nearly an 
hour at the parlor window, watching the carriages and 
passengers in the street. Idleness ever begets discon- 
tent : but instead of laying the blame upon herself, she 
felt disposed to complain of her condition. Almost 
every stranger that passed, she concluded was in hap- 
pier circumstances than herself. She observed stages 
and carriages of various kinds, driving up to the great 
inn on the other side of the way. She watched the 
passengers as they alighted and set off again ; won- 
dered who they were, whence they came, whither they 
were going, and envied them because they were not 
staying at home. A travelling chaise, with ladies in 
pretty riding dresses, stopped to change horses. " Ah," 
thought she, " how happy they are ! going some de- 
lightful journey — hundreds of miles perhaps, and to 
see thousands of curiosities ; or to live at some elegant 
country seat : at any rate they are not staying at home 



138 LUCY'S WISHES. 

like me. How long have I been confined to this dull 
town, and this one house 1 " She then cast a forlorn 
glance around the room, every object in which had 
been familiar to her from her infancy. Then looking 
over to her opposite neighbors, she saw a blazing fire, 
and the family seated round it. " How comfortable 
they are ! " thought she ; " so cheerful, so sociable : 
telling some interesting story, perhaps; not all alone 
in a dull room like me 1 " 

When it grew too dark to see distinctly what was 
passing in the street, Lucy slowly moved from the 
window and seated herself by the fire ; where, fixing 
her eyes upon the red cinders, she fell into a deep 
revery; and began to consider what situation she 
would choose for herself, if she might but change her 
condition. Her imagination still followed the travel- 
ling party she had seen stop at the inn ; and she first 
thought she should like to be a companion to those 
ladies ; to read to them, walk with them, and attend 
them wherever they went. " But how foolish ! " 
thought she ; ^^ while I am wishing, why not wish my- 
self one of the ladies themselves? Yes, yes, a rich 
heiress, very handsome, fortune at my own disposal ; 
a thousand a year — no, five, — or suppose ten thou- 
sand a year. Should my father and mother be alive ? 
Perhaps they would not allow me to travel and do as 
I pleased ; so they should have been dead some years 
and I would have a very agreeable young person for a 
companion. But poor papa and mamma 1 " thought 
Lucy, " no no, they should not be dead then ; but 
still I should have the fortune in my o\^ti hands, and 
do just what I pleased with it. And I would be an 
only child, and not have any brothers or sisters to 
tease me." She next proceeded to settle the number 
of her servants, the color of her carriages and liveries j 
in what counties she would have her country seats, and 
in what square her town house : till the number of her 



LUCY'S WISHES. 139 

wants, and the splendor of her establishments, in- 
creased so surprisingly, that she began to fear her 
means would be insufficient, and she found it expedient 
at once to increase her income from ten to twenty 
thousand a year. 

Just as Lucy had arrived at this conclusion, her 
mother entered the room, and put a stop to her med- 
itations. She was beginning to converse with her 
daughter about the book they had been reading to- 
gether in the morning ; but Lucy, finding that subject 
very dry in comparison with her late brilliant specu- 
lations, soon interrupted it by relating' as much as she 
thought proper of what had been just passing in her 
mind. Her mother, when she had finished, endeav- 
ored to prove that she would probably not be at all 
happier for such a change of circumstances. Lucy 
knew not what to say to her representations ; yet she 
did not feel convinced, and said, '' Well, then, mamma, 
if wishing were of any use, and if you were exactly in 
my place, what would you wish for ? What is the hap- 
piest situation in all the world that you can think of ? " 

^' If wishing were of any use, then," said her mother, 
*^ I might, in the first place, wish to be about that age 
when the dangers of infancy and the follies of child- 
hood are past ; but when the opportunities and advan- 
tages of youth are yet to come. I would not wish to 
be grown up, because then the character is fixed ; and 
I should lose the unspeakable advantage of having it 
yet in my power to form a good one. I might also 
wish for a sound, vigorous constitution. With regard 
to personal beauty, as there are some disadvantages 
connected with it, and as many who do not possess it 
make greater proficiency in the things most important 
to happiness than those who do, I would not wish 
about it j but make up my mind to be contented with 
whatever external appearance I happened to have. I 
should certainly wish to have kind parents ; not such 



I40 LUCY'S WISHES. 

as would indulge my follies and spoil my tem.per ; but 
parents able and willing to train me up in the way I 
should go, to impart useful instruction, and correct 
my perverse dispositions. I would also wish for 
brothers and sisters, some of them nearly of my own 
age ; as it would not only render my life miore social 
and cheerful, but give m.e an opportunity, of culti- 
vating amiable and generous feehngs, instead of grow- 
ing selfish and self-important, as is scmiCtimes the case 
with an only child. I might further wish my parents 
to be in easy circumstances, such as would allow them 
to give me a good, useful education, to supply m^y 
common wants, and to afford me a few rational pleas- 
ures. But I would by no means wish to be very rich, 
nor in the highest ranks of society, because it is uni- 
versally allowed by men of the greatest wisdom and 
experience, that persons in the middle ranks of hfe 
are the most advantageously circumstanced for the at- 
tainment of virtue and happiness. Nor would I by 
any means wish for a fortune in my own hands till I 
was well qualified to manage it; for there cannot be a 
greater misfortune than for a person to be left to his 
own guidance at the early age we are supposing. I 
would only wish, therefore, for a moderate allowance 
firom my parents, such as would enable me to indulge 
a few reasonable wishes, and that I might have a mite 
of my own to give to the poor, and to contribute 
towards some of the institutions for doing good to my 
fellow-creatures. In addition to all this, I might, if it 
were worth while, wish to live in an agreeable neigh- 
borhood, where there were a few young people of my 
own age and rank, with whom I might occasionally 
associate. I might also desire to live in a pleasant 
convenient house, with a garden; perhaps I might 
wish my parents to allow me a little garden of my own, 
to cultivate at my leisure hours ; and that my own 
room should be furnished with a suitable library, and 



LUCY'S WISHES, 141 

Other means of instruction and amusement ; and I 
would have regular hours for business and recreation." 

'' O how delightful ! " exclaimed Lucy ; " I can 
fancy exactly what kind of a house and garden it is, 
and what kind of people they are. I think you are a 
very good wisher indeed. Now that is exactly what I 
should like." 

" Indeed !" said her mother; *^and who do you 
think is the fortunate young person I have been think- 
ing of all the time, with whom you would so much like 
to change places? " 

Lucy thought for a moment, and then exclaimed, 

" O mamma ! you have been playing me a trick. 
You have been thinking of me, I do believe ! Yes, for 
I am just the age that you said ; and I have kind par- 
ents to instruct me, and they are not very rich ; and I 
have brothers and sisters of my own age to associate 
with, and a few young friends besides ; and I have an 
allowance to do what I please with ; and I am not very 
handsome ; and I Hve in a convenient house, tolerably 
pleasant, with a garden, and have a garden and room 
of my own, and books and globes, — dear, how foolish 
I was not to find it out at first ! Well, but how is it 
then that I am not as happy as I thought I should be 
with all those things ? Why was I so dull and uncom- 
fortable this afternoon, that I thought everybody better 
off than myself ? " 

"I'll tell you the reason, my dear," replied her 
mother ; " we have still left something out. The ' 
situation I have described, and in which precisely you 
yourself are placed, is certainly, as far as outward 
things can go, one of the happiest in the world ; and in 
such a world as this, a change for you would almost 
certainly be for the worse ; but then we must remem- 
ber that no situation, no possible combination of 
circumstances, can make us perfectly happy in this 
world, because it is a sinful world. When we fancy 



142 EVERY MAN HIS 

Others better off than ourselves, it is only because we 
know our own circumstances, but do not know theirs. 
Those ladies whom you imagined to be so happy only 
because they were travelling, and wore pretty riding 
dresses, have, very probably, some outward trial, or 
some secret uneasiness, which makes them less so than 
you. But besides this, there are, as I said, some 
things which we have forgotten to include in our list of 
desirables ; and they possess this great advantage 
above all the rest, that if we wish for them aright, 
wishing will not be vain. I would therefore, in addi- 
tion to all we have mentioned, wish for an amiable, 
obliging disposition ; a cheerful, open temper ; a 
peaceable and contented spirit. I would wish also, for 
industry and activity, which are the best securities 
against languor and discontent ; and without which, no 
circumstances can make us happy. Above all, I 
would desire a good conscience, and a heart right 
towards God. These are things, my dear Lucy, 
which, if we wish for, not feebly and lazily, but seri- 
ously and earnestly, may certainly be obtained. With 
these, in any circumstances, we shall be happy ; and 
without them, we should not be contented, even with 
twenty thousand a year ! " 



EVERY MAN HIS OWN FORTUNE-TELLER. 

There is a strong propensity in the human mind to 
look forward to distant years, and to penetrate the 
secrets of futurity. This desire, in the minds of the vul- 
gar and ignorant, has given rise to the foolish and 
wicked practice of consulting pretended fortune-tellers. 
In these enlightened days, I have little fear that any of 
my readers should wish to have recourse to such absurd 



OIVJV FORTUNE-TELLER. 143 

and sinful means of information ; and yet as. it is very 
likely they may sometimes feel curiosity respecting their 
future destiny, they will I hope listen to the plan I have 
to propose, — which, without incurring either guilt or 
disgrace, will enable them, each for himself, to foretell 
with considerable accuracy, what they may have to ex- 
pect in future life. 

To prevent disappointment, I here candidly confess 
that I do not pretend to enable them to divine the 
amount of their fortunes, what connection they may 
form, in what parts they may reside, nor at what period 
they will die. Nor do I regret this ; nor need they : 
since these are circumstances which it is better for us not 
to know beforehand. But with regard to things of still 
greater importance than these, such as the degree of 
success and of happiness they may reasonably expect 
in their undertakings and situations in the world, they 
will find the proposed method may be depended on. 

I shall, then, suppose myself to be consulted by a 
number of young persons, wishing to be initiated in my 
secret ; but they will not find me commencing my in- 
structions with any mystical ceremony, nor pronouncing 
any unintelligible charm. I do not even wish to ex- 
amine the palms of their hands, although I may perhaps 
take the liberty to notice the expression of their faces ; 
all I require is, some insight into their present charac- 
ters and past conduct. 

Suppose one of them, for instance, should appear to 
be a lad of an indolent, inactive disposition ; to w^hom 
exertion, whether of body or mind, was always irksome 
and burdensome, performed as a task, and by compul- 
sion ; he is looking forward anxiously to the time when 
coercion will cease, and when he shall be free from the 
necessity of exertion. In this case, I do not hesitate 
to shake my knowing head, and in the technical lan- 
guage of my profession to pronounce " bad luck to 
him." I need not ask, nor can I guess, what may be 



144 EVERY MAN HIS 

his line of business, nor what the extent of his capital ; 
but I can foretell, with great confidence, that he will be 
neither successful, respectable, nor happy. That w^hen 
restraints are removed, and he is thrown upon himself, 
life will be burdensome to him ; and that it will, very 
probably, end in poverty and disgrace. 

I shall suppose my next apphcant to be a- gay young 
lady, desirous of knowing how soon she shall be her 
own mistress, and how large her fortune will be ; as she 
is in want of a thousand things that she is not allowed 
to purchase. She is very fond of jewels and laces, and 
of all that is showy and expensive ; and wishes ex- 
tremely to be able to gratify her desires. Here again, 
I could augur no good ; so many husbands and fathers 
have been ruined by expensive wives and daughters. 
For, as poor Richard says, " silks and satins put out 
the kitchen fire." What could I see in her destiny but 
bills and bailiffs, a husband in prison, children in want, 
and herself in indigence ? 

Another approaches with his pockets stuffed with 
gingerbread, and his hands full of macaroons ; he pro- 
fesses himself to be so fond of good things that he 
spends the greater part of his pocket money at the 
pastry-cook's ; his parents allow Inm to partake of every 
dish that comes on the table, and to stuff as long as he 
pleases ; and he owns that he considers dinner-time the 
best part of the day. I need not feel this young 
gentleman's pulse in order to predict to him an im- 
paired constitution, and an early decay of his mental 
powers. Complicated disease, and premature old age 
are the invariable rewards of indulgence. These habits 
will increase with his years ; a Hstless, burdensome life, 
and early death is his probable destiny. 

The next applicant appears with a frowning brow, 
and a discontented, clouded aspect. His temper is 
sullen and obstinate, or fretful and irritable. He wishes 
to know if anything agreeable will ever befall him, for at 



OWN FORTUNE-TELLER. 145 

present he has known only unhappiness. Alas, nothing 
but unhappiness can I predict to him. He may grow 
rich and prosper in the world, but he will ever " dwell 
in Meshech : '* his family will dread, and his neighbors 
dislike him ; and his gold, if he has it, will never pur- 
chase that ease and content which is the reward of 
good-nature only. 

Another inquirer I shall suppose to be an undutiful 
son, who has ever rewarded his parents' care and kind- 
ness with neglect, disrespect and disobedience. Now, 
on this case I can pronounce with a greater degree of 
.certainty than on any of the preceding. Some faults 
never appear to meet their proper punishment in this 
world ; but it is a common remark, founded on long 
observation, that unkindness to parents, above all other 
crimes, reaps its reward even here. This youth then, 
if he becomes a parent, will be taught by refractory, 
rebellious children the anguish he has inflicted on his 
own parents. A rebellious son, an ungrateful daughter, 
must expect in due time to become an unhappy father, 
or despised mother. 

Another informs me he has had a religious education, 
and that he is in a great degree aware of the importance 
of religion, and of the value of his soul ; moreover, he 
intends before long to give it the attention it demands ; 
but hitherto he has delayed to do so, from time to 
time, hoping it would be less difficult at some future 
period than it appears now j so that, at present, he is 
as far from being truly rehgious, as he was when first 
he began to think upon the subject. Now it requires 
little sagacity to foresee the probable consequences of 
this temper. I solemnly warn him that the same indis- 
position that has hitherto prevailed, will, unless strongly 
counteracted, continue and increase ; while he is in- 
tending and purposing, his heart will grow harder and 
harder, until it will finally be said of him, '^ Cut it 
down, why cumbereth it the ground ? ** 



146 EVERY MAN HIS 

I fear I shall be regarded as a gloomy pro.gnosticator ; 
but I dare not depart from the rules of my art, which 
are founded on universal experience, and on the es- 
tablished laws of cause and effect. However, lest I be 
thought too discouraging, I am happy to proclaim 
that these destinies are, by no means, at present, to be 
considered as unchangeable. On the contrary, if the 
indolent should be roused, by a dread of the conse- 
quences awaiting his disposition, to become active and 
industrious ; the extravagant, moderate and frugal ; the 
indulgent, self-denying and abstemious ; the ill-tem- 
pered, mild and amiable ; the undutiful, affectionate and 
tractable ; and if the procrastinator resolves at once 
that he will serve the Lord, then it is obvious that all 
my dark predictions will be immediately reversed. 

For instance, let us suppose an inquirer of a different 
description to any of the foregoing. A modest, ingen- 
uous youth now approaches, wishing to know what en- 
couragement he may expect in his exertions. He 
confesses that he is not gifted with superior talents, and 
therefore does not hope to arrive at any distinguished 
eminence. It appears, however, that he early acquired 
habits of attention and industry ; that he has courage 
and perseverance to press forward in his undertakings 
in spite of difficulties, till he has conquered them ; that 
although his real wants are amply supphed, he has been 
trained in frugality and self-denial ; therefore his wishes 
are few and moderate, so that he has always his mite to 
spare for the poor and the destitute. He cannot boast 
of rich or powerful patrons, but his temper is sweet, and 
his manners obliging, by which he obtains the good-will 
of his neighbors. Moreover, he is a good son and a 
kind brother ; and having been taught that " the fear 
of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom," he has already 
found " His ways to be pleasantness, and his paths 
peace." Now, without presuming to guess whether 
this will be a rich man, I hesitate not to pronounce 



OPVJV FORTUNE-TELLER. 147 

him a happy one. He may encounter difficulties, and 
pass through trials, but " his bread will be given him, 
and his water will be sure," especially " that bread 
which he casts upon the waters will return " to him, 
when it is wanted, though " after many days." It is, 
besides this, more than probable that he will eventually 
he successful even in his temporal affairs ; that he will 
be '' blessed in his basket and his store ; " rear an 
affectionate family ; be beloved by his friends, and 
respected by all ; finally, he will die in peace, and at 
last " enter into the joy of his Lord." 

It is not unusual for fortune-tellers to predict the day 
of death ; and although, as I said, I make no such pre- 
tensions, it may yet be expected that I should not be 
totally silent on the subject. And while they who pre- 
sume to do so are miserable deceivers, I can with the 
most absolute certainty foretell what it is much more 
important to know, namely, that '' it is appointed unto 
all men once to die ; " the day and hour is indeed 
unknown ; and yet each one may, for himself, look 
forward to a period not very distant, when he may be 
quite certain that he shall have reached his " long 
home." To know that we must die one day is a far 
more interesting fact than to know what day ; and this 
is a circumstance which, surely, we may all foretell for 
ourselves. 

Is it not strange, that the grandest event of our exist- 
ence — that part of our fortunes which it is of infinitely 
greater consequence we should foreknow than whether 
we are to be princes or beggars — we should so seldom 
inquire about, although it is more easily ascertained 
than any question respecting our temporal affairs ? I 
mean, whether we are going to heaven or hell. Now, 
to know this, we have only to ask whether or not we 
are Christians. If conscience allows us humbly to hope 
that we are so, in the Scriptural sense of the word, then 
we are sure that the Lord is gone " to prepare a place 



14^ HIS OWN FORTUNE-TELLER. 

for us" among the "many mansions in his Father's 
house.'* But if we know that we are not true Chris- 
tians, nor earnestly striving to become such, then, the 
awful probability is, that we are doomed to the place 
" prepared for the devil and his angels." 

Thus, having explained and exemphfied my method, 
so as to render it clear to their comprehensions, I trust 
that every one of my readers will be able to predict all 
that is good for them to know concerning their future 
lives ; and I doubt not they will find it profitable to do 
so. Should any think it an unsatisfactory and uncertain 
plan, or flatter themselves, that although they may an- 
swer some of the above descriptions, yet, that they shall 
escape the appropriate punishment, I must tell them 
that it is for want of knowing the world and themselves, 
and for want of considering the natural and inevitable 
consequences of things. 

Anew year is 'now commencing. Let every one in- 
quire how they have begun it. Is it with a resolution 
to make renewed efforts to overcome their bad habits, 
and to improve their manners and characters ; and have 
they actually begun to make such efforts? Then I 
prophesy a happy nev\^ year to them ; and that if they 
persevere in their resolutions, it will be the happiest 
they have ever known. But if, on the contrary, they 
are beginning it in the old way, not more attentive to 
business, nor watchful of their tempers and conduct, 
not more concerned for their intellectual and rehgious 
improvement than heretofore ; then, although they may 
very likely have had a merry Christmas, I cannot wish 
them a happy new year, because I know it would be in 
vain to do so. For the saying is as true as it is trite, that 
to be happy we must be good. The knowledge of this 
is, in fact, the grand secret of my art ; and it is by con- 
sulting this simple rule, that every man may be his own 
fortune-teller. 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 149 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 



To the Editor of the " Youth's Magazine " : 

Sir, — It being very much the custom, as I am in- 
formed, even for obscure individuals to furnish some 
account of themselves, for the edification of the pubHc, 
I hope I shall not be deemed impertinent for caUing 
your attention to a few particula 's of my own history. 
I cannot indeed, boast of any very extraordinary inci- 
dents ; but having, during the course of a long life, had 
much leisure and opportunity for observation, and 
being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it might 
be in my power to 'offer some remarks that may not be 
wholly unprofitable to your readers. 

My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's 
workshop ; where I remained for many months, leaning 
with my face to the wall ; and having never known any 
livelier scene, I was very well contented with my quiet 
condition. The first object that I remember to have 
arrested my attention was what I now believe must have 
been a large spider, which, after a vast deal of scamper- 
ing about, began, very deliberateb^ to weave a curious 
web all over my face. This afford 3cl iTi ^ great amuse- 
ment; and not then knowing w'lea f.i: >rvelier objects 
were destined to my gaze, I did nc. ..esent the in- 



At length, when little dreaming of any change of 
fortune, I felt myself suddenly removed from my sta- 
tion ; and immediately afterwards underwent a curious 
operation, which at the time gave me considerable 
apprehensions for my safety. But these were suc- 
ceeded by pleasure, upon finding myself arrayed in a 
broad, black frame, handsomely carved and gilt; for 



150 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 

you will please to observe that the period of which I 
am now speaking was upwards of fourscore years ago. 
This process being finished, I was presently placed, 
very carefully, in a large packing-case, and sent a long 
journey, by wagon, to London. That I may not be 
tedious, I will not here stay to relate the surprise and 
terror I endured during this transportation ; nor the 
serious apprehensions I entertained that my delicate 
frame would never survive the jolts and jars it under- 
went in the course of it. Indeed, I have reason to 
beheve that I was in imminent danger many times ; 
not to mention the extreme darkness and dreariness of 
my situation. How sincerely did I then wish to be 
replaced in my old quiet corner; which appeared 
cheerfulness itself, compared with my present forlorn 
condition. So little are we capable of judging what 
circumstances will eventually prove most conducive to 
our happiness ! At last, after many, to me, unintelli- 
gible movements, I found to my great joy that my 
prison was being unbarred. The cheerful light once 
again shone upon me ; and a person, whom I after- 
wards found to be my new master's apprentice (and 
with whom I soon became well acquainted) lifted me 
carefully out. No sooner had he cleared away from 
my face the straw and paper with which I had been 
well nigh suffocated, than, as I observed, he gave me 
a very significant look ; which, to confess the truth, I 
took, at the time, for a compliment to myself; but I 
have since learned to interpret such comphments more 
truly. Striking, indeed, was the contrast between my 
late mode of life and that to which I was now intro- 
duced. My new situation was in the shop Window, 
with my face to the street, — which was one of the 
most public in London. Here my attention was at 
first quite distracted by the constant succession of 
objects that passed before me. But it was not long 
before I began to remark the considerable degree of 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 151 

attention I myself excited ; and how much I was dis- 
tinguished, in this respect, from my neighbors, the 
other articles, in the shop window. I observed that 
passengers, who appeared to be posting away upon 
urgent business, would often just turn and give me a 
friendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly 
gratified to observe, that while the old, the shabby, 
and the wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the 
young, the gay, and the handsome, generally paid me 
this compliment ; and that these good-looking people 
always seemed the best pleased with me ; which I at- 
tributed to their superior discernment. I well remem- 
ber one young lady, who used to pass my master's shop 
regularly every morning in her way to school, and who 
never omitted to turn her head to look at me as she went 
by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted with each 
other. I must confess, that at this period of life, I 
was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, from 
the attentions that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, 
I am not the only individual to whom a sudden re- 
moval from retirement to a more public mode of life, 
has proved a hazardous and trying event to the charac- 
ter ; nor the only one who has formed mistaken notions 
as to the attentions they receive in society. 

My vanity, however, received a considerable check 
from one circumstance ; nearly all the goods by which 
I was surrounded in the shop window, though many 
of them much more homely in their structure, and 
humble in their destinations, were disposed of sooner 
than myself. I had the mortification of seeing one 
after another bargained for and sent away, while I re- 
mained, month after month, without a purchaser. At 
last, however, a gentleman and lady from the country, 
who had been standing some time in the street, in- 
specting, and, as I perceived, conversing about me, 
walked into the shop ; and after some altercation with 
my master, agreed to purchase me : upon which I 



152 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 

was once more packed up, and sent off on a longer 
journey than before. I was far less disconcerted, this 
time, by my unpleasant circumstances, than during my 
first journey ; concluding they would terminate, as be- 
fore, in a change for the better, — another proof of our 
incompetence to judge of the real tendency of passing 
events. I was very curious, you may suppose, upon 
arriving at my new quarters, to see what kind of life I 
was likely to lead. I remained, however, some time 
unmolested in my packing case, and very flat I felt 
there. Upon being, at last, unpacked, I found myself 
in the stone hall of a large, lone house in the country. 
My master and mistress, I soon learned, were new- 
married people, just setting up house-keeping; and I 
was intended to decorate their best parlor; to which 
I was presently conveyed ; and after some little dis- 
cussion between them in fixing my longitude and lat- 
itude, I was hung up opposite the fire-place, in an 
angle of ten degrees from the wall, according to the 
fashion of those times. I felt, at first, very well pleased 
with my new situation, and looked with complacency 
upon the various objects before me, which, like myself, 
were then new and handsome. But perhaps I should 
have experienced some dismay, if I could have known 
that I was destined to spend fifty years in that spot 
without undergoing, any change myself, or witnessing 
any in the things that surrounded me, except, indeed, 
that imperceptibly produced by time. 

Yes, there I hung, year after year, almost in perpet- 
ual solitude. My master and mistress were sober, 
regular, old-fashioned people ; they saw no company 
except at fair time and Christmas day ; on which 
occasions only, they occupied the best parlor. My 
countenance used to brighten up, when I saw the 
annual fire kindled in that ample grate ; and when a 
cheerful circle of country cousins assembled round it. 
At those times, I always got a little notice from the 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 153 

young folks ; but those festivities over, and I was con- 
demned to another half year of complete loneliness. 
How familiar to my recollection at this hour, is that 
large, old-fashioned parlor ! I can remember, as well 
as if I had seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers 
on the crimson-damask chair-covers and window- 
curtains j and those curiously carved tables and chairs. 
I could describe every one of the stories on the Dutch 
tiles that surrounded the grate ; the rich china orna- 
ments on the wide mantel-piece ; and the pattern of 
the paper-hangings, which consisted alternately of a 
parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess — a parrot, a pop- 
py, and a shepherdess. The room being so little used, 
the window-shutters were rarely opened, but there 
were three holes cut in each, in the shape of a heart, 
through which, day after day, and year after year, I 
used to watch the long, dim, dusty sunbeams, stream- 
ing across the dark parlor. I should mention, however, 
that I seldom missed a short visit from my master and 
mistress on a Sunday morning, when they came down 
stairs, ready dressed for church. I can remember how 
my mistress used to trot in upon her high-heeled 
shoes, unfold a leaf of one of the shutters, then come 
and stand straight before me ; then turn half round 
to the right and left ; never failing to see if the comer 
of her well-starched handkerchief was pinned exactly 
in the middle. I think I can see her now, in her 
favorite dove-colored lustring (which she wore every 
Sunday in every summer for seven years at the least), 
and her long full ruffles, and worked apron. Then 
followed my good master ; who, though his visit was 
somewhat shorter, never failed to come and settle his 
Sunday wig before me. 

Time rolled away : and my master and mistress, 
with all that appertained to them, insensibly suffered 
from its influence. When I first knew them, they 
were a young, blooming couple as you would wish to 



154 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 

see: but I gradually perceived an alteration. My 
mistress began to stoop a little ; and my master got a 
cough, which troubled him, more or less, to the end 
of his days. At first, and for many years, my mistress's 
foot upon the stairs was light and nimble, and she 
would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but at 
last, it was a slow, heavy step ; and even my master's 
began to totter. And, in these respects, everything 
else kept pace with them. The crimson damask that 
I remembered so fresh and bright, was now faded and 
worn; the dark polished mahogany was, in some 
places, worm-eaten ; the parrot's gay plumage on the 
walls grew dull ; and I myself, though long unconscious 
of it, partook of the universal decay. The dissipated 
taste I acquired, upon my first introduction to society, 
had long since subsided ; and the quiet sombre life I 
led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change 
which I witnessed in all things around me, caused me to 
reflect much on their vanity; and when, upon the 
occasions before mentioned, I used to see the gay, 
blooming faces of the young saluting me with so much 
complacency, I would fain have admonished them of 
the alteration they must soon undergo; and have 
told them how certainly their bloom, also, must fade 
away as a flower. But, alas ! you know, sir, looking- 
glasses can only reflect. 

After I had remained in this condition, to the best 
of my knowledge, about five and forty years, I sudden- 
ly missed my poor old master. ^ He came to visit me 
no more ; and by the change in my mistress's apparel, 
I guessed what had happened. Five years more 
passed away ; and then I saw no more of her. In a 
short time after this, several rude strangers entered my 
room; the long, rusty screw, which had held me up 
so many years, was drawn out ; and I, together with 
all the goods and chattels in the house, was put up at 
auction, in that very apartment which I had so long 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 155 

peaceably occupied. I felt a good deal hurt at the 
very contemptuous terms in which I was spoken of by 
some of the bidders \ for, as I said, I was not aware 
that I had become as old-fashioned as my poor old 
master and mistress. At last I was knocked down for 
a trifling sum, and sent away to a very different 
destination. 

Before going home to my new residence, I was 
sent to a workman to be refitted in a new gilt frame ; 
which, although it completely modernized my appear- 
ance, I must confess, at first, set very uneasily upon 
me. And now, although it was not till my old age, I 
for the first time became acquainted with my natural 
use, capacity, and importance. My new station was 
no other than the dressing-room of a young lady, just 
come from school. Before I was well fixed in the 
destined spot, she came to survey me, and with a look 
of such complacency and good-will, as I had not seen 
for many a day. I was now presently initiated in all 
the mysteries of the toilet. Oh, what an endless 
variety of laces, jewels, silks, and ribbons ; pins, combs, 
cushions, and curling-irons ; washes, essences, pow- 
ders, and patches, were daily spread before me ! If I 
had been heretofore almost tired with the sight of my 
good old mistress's everlasting lustring, I really felt 
still more so with this profusion of ornament and prep- 
aration. I was indeed, favored with my fair mistress's 
constant attentions. They were so unremitting as 
perfectly to astonish me, after being so long accus- 
tomed to comparative neglect. Never did she enter 
her room, on the most hasty errand, without just 
vouchsafing me a kind glance ; and at leisure hours I 
was indulged with much longer visits. Indeed, to 
confess the truth, I was sometimes quite surprised at 
their length ; but I don't mean to tell tales. During 
the hour of dressing, when I was more professionally 
engaged with her, there was, I could perceive, nothing 



156 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 

fti the room, in the house, nay, I believe nothing in the 
world, of so much importance in her estimation as my- 
self. But I have frequently remarked, with concern, 
the different aspect with which she would regard me at 
those times, and when she returned at night from the 
evening's engagements. However late it was, or how- 
ever fatigued she might be, still I was sure of a greet- 
ing the moment she entered ; but instead of the bright, 
blooming face I had seen a few hours before, it was 
generally pale and haggard, and not unfrequently 
bearing a strong expression of disappointment or 
chagrin. 

My mistress would frequently bring a crowd of her 
young companions into her apartment : and it was 
amusing to see how they would each in turn come to 
pay their respects to me. What varied features and 
expressions in the course of a few minutes I had thus 
an opportunity of observing ! — upon which I used to 
make my own quiet reflections. 

In this manner I continued some years in the service 
of my mistress, without any material alteration taking 
place either in her or in me. But, at length, I began 
to perceive that her aspect towards me was consider- 
ably changed, especially when I compared it with my 
first recollections of her. She now appeared to regard 
me with somewhat less complacency ; and would fre- 
quently survey me with a mingled expression of 
displeasure and suspicion, as though some change had 
taken place in me^ though I am sure it was no fault of 
mine ; indeed, I could never reflect upon myself for 
a moment. With regard to my conduct towards any 
of my owners, I have ever been a faithful servant ; nor 
have I once, in the course of my whole life, given a 
false answer to any one I have had to do with. I am, 
by nature, equally averse to flattery and detraction ; 
and this I may say for myself, that I am incapable of 
misrepresentation. It was with mingled sensations of 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 157 

contempt and compassion, that I witnessed the efforts 
my mistress now made in endeavoring to force me to 
yield the same satisfaction to her as I had done upon 
our first acquaintance. Perhaps, in my confidential 
situation, it would be scarcely honorable to disclose all 
I saw. Suffice it then to hint that to my candid tem- 
per it was painful to be obliged to connive at that 
borrowed bloom, which, after all, was a substitute for 
that of nature ; time, too, greatly baffled even these 
expedients, and threatened to render them wholly 
ineffectual. Many a cross and reproachful look had I 
now to endure ; which, how^ever, I took patiently, 
being always remarkably smooth and even in my tem- 
per. Well remembering how sadly Time had spoiled 
the face of my poor old mistress, I dreaded the 
consequences if my present owner should experience, 
by and by, as rough treatment from him ; and I be- 
lieve she dreaded it too. But these apprehensions 
were needless. Time is not seldom arrested in the 
midst of his occupations ; and it was so in this in- 
stance. I was one day greatly shocked by beholding 
my poor mistress stretched out in a remote part of the 
room, arrayed in very different ornaments to those I 
had been used to see her wear. She was so much 
altered that I scarcely knew her; but for this she 
could not now reproach me. I watched her thus for 
a few days, as she lay before me, as cold and motion- 
less as myself But she was soon conveyed away; 
and I, shortly aftenvards, was engaged in the service 
of another mistress. 

My new station was, in some respects, very similar 
to my last; that is, I was again placed in a young 
lady's apartment, where I did not doubt but I should 
be called to witness the same appearances and opera- 
tions as before ; but in this I was mistaken. The 
first circumstance that made me suspect my new 
mistress differed from my late one, was, that when she 



158 THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 

first entered her chamber after my arrival, I observed 
that she remained there for a considerable time, and 
at last went out again without taking the least notice 
of me. This surprised me exceedingly. The first 
time I had a full view of her, was the next morning as 
soon as she arose, when she came and spent a very 
few minutes in my company, adjusting a neat morning 
dress, and combing out some pretty, simple ringlets 
upon her fair forehead. It was not such a fine formed 
face as I remember my last mistress's was, when I 
first entered her service ; but having, by this time, 
from the nature of my studies, acquired considerable 
skill in physiognomy, I confess it pleased me much 
better. And although I soon found I should meet with 
much less attention here than I had lately been accus- 
tomed to, I was now too old, and knew too well how to 
estimate those attentions, to feel at all mortified at the 
neglect. The visits my new mistress paid me were very 
regular. About thrice in the day she used to avail her- 
self for a short time of my services ; and while on these 
occasions I never remember to have received a cross 
or discontented look from her, so I never, on the 
other hand, witnessed that expression of secret satis- 
faction, or anxious inquiry, which I had often hereto- 
fore had occasion to remark. 

My mistress spent much time alone in her chamber ; 
but it was rarely indeed, that she took any notice of 
me, except at those times when I was really wanted. 
I have known her sit many a time, for two or three 
hours, working or reading at the table over which I 
hung, without once lifting up her head to look at me ; 
though I could see her all the time. I have observ^ed 
her light figure pass and repass twenty times before 
me, without her once glancing at me as she went by. 
Thus we lived together very good friends ; neither of 
us making any unreasonable demands upon the other. 
Time, as usual, passed away; but I was particularly 



THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 159 

Struck in observing the different effect of his operations 
on the countenance of Iny present possessor, and that 
of my last. There was, of course, in a few years some 
visible alteration ; but although the bloom of youth 
began to fade, there was nothing less of sweetness, 
cheerfulness, and contentment in her expression. She 
retained the same placid smile, the same unclouded 
brow, the same mildness in her eye (though it was 
somewhat less sparkling), as when it first beamed upon 
me ten years before. 

I saw here but few fine things and little variety, — 
except such as the changing seasons, and a moderate 
attention to changing fashions occasioned, — but then, 
I was never annoyed, as I had been in my last place, 
with that heterogeneous mixture of fragments of lit- 
tered finery with which the room and dressing-table 
used to be scattered in all directions, after the grand 
operation was over ; and which lay full in my view for 
hours, till my mistress's return at night, or more often 
till the next morning. All here was neat and orderly ; 
which to me was a very great accommodation ; having 
acquired, in early Ufe, from the orderly habits of my 
poor old mistress, such a love of neatness, that any- 
thing untidy was particularly offensive to me. I be- 
came, as you may easily imagine, much attached to 
my present employer, and wished for nothing better 
than to pass the remainder of my days in her service ; 
but herein I was disappointed. 

One morning early, she appeared before me, sur- 
rounded by several fair attendants, and devoted to me 
a little more time and attention than was usual with 
her. I shall never forget the expression of her 
countenance, as she stood arrayed all in white, and 
gave me one more pensive look, which I little thought, 
at the time, would be the last I should ever receive 
from her ; but so it was. There was a great bustle in 



i6o THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS, 

the house that morning (whafever was the reason), and 
I saw my fair mistress no more ! 

Ever since, I have continued in quiet possession of 
her deserted chamber ; which is only occasionally visit- 
ed by other parts of the family. Sometimes my dear 
mistress's favorite cat will steal in, as though in quest 
of her; leap up upon the table, purr, and- sweep her 
long tail across my face ; then, catching a glimpse of 
me, jump down again, and run out as though she was 
frightened. I feel that I am now getting old, and 
almost beyond further service. I have an ugly crack 
occasioned by the careless stroke of a broom, all 
across my left corner ; my coat is very much worn in 
several places ; even my new frame is now tarnished 
and old-fashioned ; so that I cannot expect any new 
employment. 

Having now, therefore, nothing to reflect on but the 
past scenes of my life, I have amused myself with 
giving you this account of them. I said I had made 
physiognomy my study, and that I had acquired some 
skill in this interesting science. The result of my 
observations will, at least, be deemed impartial, when 
I say, that I am generally least pleased with the char- 
acter of those faces, which appear the most so with 
mine. And I have seen occasion so far to alter the 
opinions of my inexperienced youth, that, for those 
who pass the least time with me, and treat me with 
little consideration, I conceive the highest esteem ; and 
their aspect generally produces the most pleasing re- 
flections. 



HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. i6l 



HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 

In a remote period of antiquity, when the supernat- 
ural and the marvellous obtained a readier credence 
than now, it was fabled that a stranger of extraordinary 
appearance was observed pacing the streets of one of 
the magnificent cities of the East, remarking with an 
eye of intelhgent curiosity every surrounding object. 
Several individuals gathering around him, questioned 
him concerning his country and his business ; but they 
presently perceived that he was unacquainted with 
their language, and he soon discovered himself to be 
equally ignorant of the most common usages of soci- 
ety. At the same time, the dignity and intelli- 
gence of his air and demeanor forbade the idea of his 
being either a barbarian or a lunatic. When at length 
he understood by their signs that they wished to be 
informed whence he came, he pointed with great signi- 
ficance to the sky ; upon which the crowd, concluding 
him to be one of their deities, were proceeding to pay 
him divine honors. But he no sooner comprehended 
their design than he rejected it with horror ; and 
bending his knees and raising his hands towards 
heaven in the attitude of prayer, gave them to under- 
stand that he also was a worshipper of the powers 
above. 

After a time, it is said that the mysterious stranger 
accepted the hospitalities of one of the nobles of the 
city ; under whose roof he applied himself with great 
diligence to the acquirement of the language, in which 
he made such surprising proficiency, that in a few days 
he was able to hold intelligent intercourse with those 
around him. The noble host now resolved to take an 
early opportunity of satisfying his curiosity respecting 



1 62 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 

the country and quality of his guest ; and upon his ex- 
pressing this desire, the stranger assured him that he 
would answer his inquiries that evening after sunset. 
Accordingly, as night approached, he led him forth upon 
the balconies of the palace, which overlooked the weal- 
thy and populous city. Innumerable lights from its busy 
streets and splendid palaces were now reflected in the 
dark bosom of its noble river ; where stately vessels 
laden with rich merchandise from all parts of the known 
world, lay anchored in the port. This was a city in 
which the voice of the harp and of the viol, and the 
sound of the mill-stone were continually heard ; and 
craftsmen of all kinds of craft were there ; and the light 
of a candle was seen in every dwelling ; and the voice of 
the bridegroom and the voice of the bride were heard 
there. The stranger mused awhile upon the glittering 
scene, and listened to the confused murmur of ming- 
ling sounds. Then suddenly raising his eyes to the 
starry firmament, he fixed them with an expressive 
gaze, on the beautiful evening star which was just sink- 
ing behind a dark grove that surrounded one of the 
principal temples of the city. " Marvel not," said he 
to his host, '^ that I am wont to gaze with fond affec- 
tion on yonder silvery star. That was my home. Yes, 
I was lately an inhabitant of that tranquil planet ; from 
whence a vain curiosity has tempted me to wander. 
Often had I beheld with wondering admiration, this 
brilliant world of yours, ever one of the brightest gems 
of our firmament ; and the ardent desire I had long 
felt to know something of its condition, was at length 
unexpectedly gratified. I received permission and 
power from above to traverse the mighty void, and to 
direct my course to this distant sphere. To that, per- 
mission, however, one condition was annexed, to which 
my eagerness for the enterprise induced me hastily to 
consent ; namely, that I must thenceforth remain an 
inhabitant of this strange earth, and undergo all the 



HOW IT S TRUCES A STRANGER. 163 

vicissitudes to which its natives are subject. Tell me 
therefore, I pray you, what is the lot of man ; and ex- 
plain to me more fully than I yet understand all that 
I hear and see around me." 

^^ Truly, sir," replied the astonished noble, *' al- 
though I am altogether unacquainted with the manners 
and customs, products and privileges of your country, 
yet methinks I cannot but congratulate you on your 
arrival in our world ; especially since it has been your 
good fortune to alight on a part of it affording such 
various sources of enjoyment as this our opulent and 
luxurious city. And be assured it will be my pride and 
pleasure to introduce you to all that is most worthy 
the attention of such a distinguished foreigner." 

Our adventurer, accordingly, was presently initiated 
in those arts of luxury and pleasure which were there 
well understood. He was introduced by his obliging 
host to their public games and festivals ; to their theat- 
rical diversions, and convivial assemblies ; and in a short 
time he began to feel some relish for amusements, the 
meaning of which, at first, he could scarcely compre- 
hend. 

The next lesson which it became desirable to impart 
to him, was the necessity of acquiring wealth as the 
only means of obtaining pleasure, — a fact which was 
no sooner understood by the stranger than he grate- 
fully accepted the offer of his friendly host to place 
him in a situation in which he might amass riches. To 
this object he began to apply himself with diligence ; 
and was becoming in some measure reconciled to the 
manners and customs of our planet, strangely as they 
differed from those of his own, w^hen an incident oc- 
curred which gave an entirely new direction to his 
energies. 

It was but a few weeks after his arrival on our earth, 
when, walking in the cool of the day with his friend in 
the outskirts of the city, his attention was arrested by 



1 64 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 

the appearance of a spacious enclosure near which they 
passed. He inquired the use to which it was appro- 
priated. 

'^It is," replied the nobleman, "a place of public 
interment." 

'' I do not understand you," said the stranger. 

"It is the place," repeated his friend,' ''where we 
bury our dead." 

"- Excuse me, sir," replied his companion, with some 
embarrassment, " I must trouble you to explain your- 
self yet further." 

The nobleman repeated the information in still 
plainer terms. 

" I am still at a loss to comprehend you perfectly," 
said the stranger, turning deadly pale. "This must 
relate to something of which I was not only totally igno- 
rant in my own world, but of which I have, as yet, had 
no intimation in yours. I pray you, therefore, to satisfy 
my curiosity ; for if I have any clue to your meaning, 
this, surely, is a matter of more mighty concernment 
than any to which you have hitherto directed me." 

" My good friend," replied the nobleman, " you 
must be indeed a novice amongst us, if you have yet to 
learn that we must all, sooner or later, submit to take 
our place in these dismal abodes. Nor will I deny 
that it is one of the least desirable of the circumstances 
which appertain to our condition ; for which reason it 
is a matter rarely referred to in polished society, and 
this accounts for your being hitherto uninformed on 
the subject. But truly, sir, if the inhabitants of the 
place whence you came are not liable to any similar 
misfortune, I advise you to betake yourself back again 
with all speed ; for be assured there is no escape here ; 
nor could I guarantee your safety for a single hour." 

" Alas," rephed the adventurer, " I must submit to 
the conditions of my enterprise ; of which, till now, I 
little understood the import. But explain to me, I 



HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 165 

beseech you, something more of the nature and conse- 
quences of this wondrous metamorphosis, and tell me at 
what period it most commonly happens to man." 

While he thus spoke, his voice faltered, and his 
whole frame shook violently ; his countenance was pale 
as death, and a cold dew stood in large drops upon his 
forehead. 

By this time his companion, finding the discourse 
becoming more serious than was agreeable, declared 
that he must refer him to the priests for further informa- 
tion ; this subject being very much out of his province. 

'^ How ! " exclaimed the stranger, " then I cannot 
have understood you. Do the priests only die ? — are 
you not to die also ? " 

His friend, evading these questions, hastily conducted 
his importunate companion to one of their magnificent 
temples, where he gladly consigned him to the instruc- 
tions of the priesthood. 

The emotion which the stranger had betrayed when 
he received the first idea of death, was yet slight in 
comparison with that which he experienced as soon as 
he gathered from the discourses of the priests, some 
notion of immortality ; and of the alternative of happi- 
ness or misery in a future state. But this agony of 
mind was exchanged for transport when he learned, 
that by the performance of certain conditions before 
death, the state of happiness might be secured. His 
eagerness to learn the nature of these terms, excited 
the surprise and even the contempt of his sacred teach- 
ers. They advised him to remain satisfied for the 
present with the instructions he had received, and to 
defer the remainder of the discussion till the morrow. 

" How ! " exclaimed the novice, '^ say you not that 
death may come at any hour ? — may it not then come 
this hour ? And what if it should come before I have 
performed these conditions ! Oh ! withhold not this 
excellent knowledge from me a single moment ! " 



1 66 HOW IT STRIKES A STRANGER. 

The priests suppressing a smile at his simplicity, then 
proceeded to explain their theology to their attentive 
auditor. But who shall describe the ecstasy of his 
happiness when he was given to understand that the 
required conditions were, generally, of easy and pleas- 
ant performance ; and that the occasional difficulties or 
inconveniences which might attend them, would entirely 
cease with the short term of his earthly existence. '' If 
then, I understand you rightly," said he to his instruc- 
tors, ^^ this event which you call death, and which seems 
in itself strangely terrible, is most desirable and blissful. 
What a favor is this which is granted to me, in being 
sent to inhabit a planet in which I can die ! " The 
priests again exchanged smiles with each other; but 
their ridicule was wholly lost upon the enraptured 
stranger. 

When the first transports of his emotion had sub- 
sided, he began to reflect with sore uneasmess on the 
time he had already lost since his arrival. 

" Alas, what have I been doing ! " exclaimed he. 
^' This gold which I have been collecting, tell me, 
reverend priests, will it avail me anything when the 
thirty or forty years are expired which, you say, I may 
possibly sojourn in your planet ! " 

^' Nay," replied the priests, '' but verily you will find 
it of excellent use so long as you remain in it." 

" A very little of it shall suffice me," rephed he ; 
'^ for consider, how soon this period will be past. What 
avails it what my condition may be for so short a sea- 
son ? I will betake myself from this hour to the grand 
concerns of which you have charitably informed me." 

Accordingly, from that period, continues the legend, 
the stranger devoted himself to the performance of 
those conditions on which, he was told, his future wel- 
fare depended ; but in so doing, he had an opposition 
to encounter wholly unexpected, and for which he 
was even at a loss to account. By thus devoting his 



SOLILOQUIES. 167 

chief attention to his chief interests, he excited the sur- 
prise, the contempt, and even the enmity of most of 
the inhabftants of the city ; and they rarely mentioned 
liim but with a term of reproach, which has been 
variously rendered in all the modern languages. 

Nothing could equal the stranger's surprise at this cir- 
cumstance ; as well as that of his fellow- citizens appear- 
ing, generally, so extremely indifferent as they did to 
their own interests. That they should have so little 
prudence and forethought as to provide only for their 
necessities and pleasures for that short part of their 
existence in which they were to remain in this planet 
he could consider only as the effect of disordered in- 
tellect; so that he even returned their incivilities to 
himself with affectionate expostulation, accompanied by 
lively emotions of compassion and amazement. 

If ever he was tempted for a moment to violate any 
of the conditions of his future happiness, he bewailed 
his own madness with agonizing emotions ; and to all 
the invitations he received from others to do anything in- 
consistent with his real interests, he had but one answer : 
'' Oh," he would say, " I am to die 1 — I am to die ! " 



SOLILOQUIES OF THE OLD PHILOSOPHER 
AND THE YOUNG LADY. 

"Alas!" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, "how 
narrow is the utmost extent of human knowledge ; how 
circumscribed the sphere of intellectual exertion ! I 
have spent my life in acquiring knowledge, but how 
little do I know ! The farther I attempt to penetrate 
the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered and 
benighted. Beyond a certain Hmit all is but confusion 



1 68 SOLILOQ UIES. 

or conjecture ; so that the advantage of the learned 
over the ignorant consists greatly in having ascertained 
how little is to be known. 

" It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute 
the distances of the planets ; I can calculate their pe- 
riodical movements ; and even ascertain the laws by 
which they perform their subUme revolutions. But with 
regard to their construction, to the beings which inhabit 
them, — of their condition and circumstances, whether 
natural or moral, what do I know more than the clown ? 

" Delighting to examine the economy of nature in 
our own world, I have analyzed the elements ; and have 
given names to their component parts. And yet, should 
I not be as much at a loss to explain the burning of 
fire, or to account for the liquid quality of water, as 
the vulgar who use and enjoy them without thought or 
examination ? 

" I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the 
ground ; and I am taught to account for this by the 
law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more 
than a term ? Does it convey to my mind any idea of 
the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain, which 
draws all things to a common centre ? I observe the 
effect, I give a name to the cause, but can I explain or 
comprehend it? 

" Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned 
to distinguish the animal, vegetable, and mineral king- 
doms, and to divide these into their distinct tribes and 
families ; but can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single 
blade of grass derives its vitality? Could the most 
minute researches enable me to discover the exquisite 
pencil that paints and fringes the flower of the field ? 
Have I ever detected the secret that gives their brilhant 
dye to the ruby and the emerald, or the art that enam- 
els the delicate shell? 

" I observe the sagacity of animals ; I call it instinct, 
and speculate upon its various degrees of approxima- 



SOLILOQUIES. 169 

tion to the reason of man. But after all, I know as 
little of the cogitations of the brute as he does of mine. 
When I see a flight of birds overhead, performing their 
evolutions, or steering their course to some distant 
settlement, their signals and cries are as unintelligible 
to me as are the learned languages to the unlettered 
mechanic. I understand as little of their policy and 
laws as they do of Blackstone's Commentaries. 

" But leaving the material creation, my thoughts have 
often ascended to loftier subjects, and indulged in 
metaphysical speculation. And here, while I easily 
perceive in myself the two distinct qualities of matter 
and mind, I am baffled in every attempt to comprehend 
their mutual dependence and mysterious connection. 
When my hand moves in obedience to my will, have I 
the most distant conception of the manner in which 
the voHtion is either communicated or understood? 
Thus in the exercise of one of the most simple and 
ordinary actions, I am perplexed and confounded, if 
I attempt to account for it. 

'' Again, how many years of my life were devoted to 
the acquisition of those languages by the means of 
which I might explore the records of remote ages, and 
become familiar with the learning and literature of other 
times ! And what have I gathered from these but the 
mortifying fact, that man has ever been struggling with 
his own impotence, and vainly endeavoring to overleap 
the bounds which limit his anxious inquiries. 

" Alas, then, what have I gained by my laborious 
researches but a humbling conviction of my weakness 
and ignorance ? Of how little has man, at his best estate, 
to boast ! What folly in him to glory in his contracted 
powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acqui- 
sitions ! " 

" Well ! " exclaimed a young lady, just returned 
from school, " my education is at last finished. Indeed 



170 SOLILOQUIES. 

it would be strange, if, after five years' hard application, 
anything were left incomplete. Happily that it is all 
over now ; and I have nothing to do but to exercise 
my various accomplishments. 

'' Let me see, as to French, I am mistress of that, 
and speak it, if possible, with more fluency^ than Eng- 
lish. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very 
well, — as well at least, and better, than any of my 
friends ; and that is all one need wish for in ItaHan. 
Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, 
now that we have a grand piano, it will be delightful to 
play when we have company. I must still continue to 
practise a little, — - the only thing, I think, that I need now 
to improve myself in. And then there are my ItaHan 
songs, which everybody allows I sing with taste ; and 
as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am par- 
ticularly glad that I can. 

" My drawings are universally admired, — especially 
the shells and flowers ; which are beautiful, certainly. 
Besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of 
fancy ornaments. 

" And then, my dancing and waltzing ; in which our 
master himself owned that he could take me no further — 
just the figure for it certainly ; it would be unpardonable 
if I did not excel. 

'^ As to common things, geography, and history, and 
poetry, and philosophy, — thank my stars, I have got 
through them all ; so that I may consider myself not 
only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly well 
informed. 

" Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through ! 
The only wonder is that one head can contain it all ! " 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. I 71 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 

In days of yore, as Gothic fable tells, 
When learning dimly gleamed from grated cells, 
When wild Astrology's distorted eye 
Shunned the fair field of true philosophy, 
And wandering through the depths of mental night, 
Sought dark predictions 'mid the worlds of light ; 
When curious Alchemy, with puzzled brow. 
Attempted things that Science laughs at now, — 
Losing the useful purpose she consults. 
In vain chimeras and unknown results, — 
In those gray times there lived a reverend sage, 
Whose wisdom shed its lustre on the age. 
A monk he was, immured in cloistered walls, 
Where now the ivied ruin crumbling falls. 
'T was a profound seclusion that he chose ; 
The noisy world disturbed not that repose. 
The flow of murmuring waters, day by day. 
And whistling winds, that forced their tardy way 
Through reverend trees, of ages' growth, that made 
Around the holy pile a deep monastic shade ; 
The chanted psalm, or solitary prayer — 
Such were the sounds that broke the silence there. 



'T was here, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er. 
In the depths of his cell, with its stone-covered floor, 
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain, 
He formed the contrivance we now shafl explain. 
But whether by magic or alchemy's powers, 
We know not, indeed 't is no business of ours. 
Perhaps it was only by patience and care. 
At last that he brouo^ht his invention to bear. 



172 THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 

In youth 't was projected ; but years stole away, 
And ere 't was complete he was wrinkled and gray ; 
But success is secure unless energy fails ; 
And at length he produced The Philosopher* s Scales, 

What were they, you ask. You shall presently see 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea ; 
Oh, no ; for such properties wondrous had they, 
That quaHties, feelings, and thoughts they could 

weigh ; 
Together with articles small or immense. 
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense. 
Nought was there so bulky but there it could lay ; 
And nought so ethereal but there it would stay ; 
And nought so reluctant but in it must go ; 
All which some examples more clearly will show. 

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, 
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there. 
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, 
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief; 
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, 
As to bound like a ball on the roof of the cell. 

Next time he put in Alexander the Great ^ 
With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a 

weight ; 
And though clad in armor fi*om sandals to crown, 
The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed. 
By a well-esteemed pharisee, busy and proud. 
Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest 
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the 

chest. 
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, 
And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a 

bounce. 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 173 

Again he performed an experiment rare ; 
A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare, 
CHmbed into his scale ; in the other was laid 
The heart of our Howard, now partly decayed ; 
When he found, with surprise, that the whole of his 

brother 
Weighed less, by some pounds, than this bit of the 

other. 

By further experiments (no matter how) 
He found that ten chariots weighed less than one 

plough. 
A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, 
Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail ; 
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear. 
Weighed less than a widow's uncrystaUized tear. 
A lord and a lady went up at full sail. 
When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. 
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, 
Ten counsellor's wigs full of powder and curl. 
All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence. 
Weighed less than some atoms of candor and 

sense ; — 
A first-water diamond, with briUiants begirt. 
Than one good potato, just washed from the dirt. 
Yet not mountains of silver and gold would suffice. 
One pearl to outweigh — 't was " the pearl of great 

price." 

At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate. 
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight ; 
When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff, 
That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof; 
Whence, balanced in air, it ascended on high, 
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky ; 
While the scale with the soul in so mightily fell, 
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 



174 I CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 

MORAL. 

Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails, 
We pray you to try The Philosopher's Scales. 
But if they are lost in the ruins around, 
Perhaps a good substitute thus may be found : 
'htt Judgment and conscie7ice in circles be cut, 
To which strings of thought may be carefully put ; 
Let these be made even with caution extreme, 
And impartiality use for a beam ; 
Then bring those good actions which pride overrates, 
And tear up your motives to serve for the weights. 



"I CAN DO WITHOUT IT." 



This is one of the best mottos in the world, or one 
of the worst, according to the meaning attached to it : 
which will appear from the conduct of two young 
people who were acquainted with each other ; each of 
whom happened to take the above sentence into fre- 
quent use. Eliza disliked and ridiculed the manner 
in which it was apphed by Ruth ; and Ruth could not 
but disapprove of the way in which it was used by 
Eliza. The purpose to which Ruth appropriated the 
words, and the way in which she came to adopt them 
as her motto, shall be explained in the present paper. 

Her parents were persons of superior education, but 
their income was limited and narrow ; so that they were 
compelled by their circumstances, as well as inclined 
by their good sense, to study economy. Ruth entered 
into the prudent and sensible views of her parents at 
an early age ; and her general conduct gave them so 



/ CAN DO WITHOUT IT 1 75 

much satisfaction, that on the day she was fourteen, 
her mother informed her that from that time she should 
be intrusted with the purchase and entire management 
of her own dress, and that her annual allowance would 
be increased accordingly. The sum now allotted to 
her was such as her mother considered sufficient, with 
prudence and management, to meet all her real wants 
and reasonable wishes. 

When Ruth received her first quarterage, the posses- 
sion of a sum of money so much larger than she had 
ever been mistress of before, made her feel a little 
giddy. However, she deposited it safely in her desk, 
resolving not to touch it till it was really wanted. 
Economy, her mother told her, did not consist in 
grudging to supply our wants, but in restraining the 
desires for superfluities. Not many days after she had 
entered upon this new responsibility, Ruth accom- 
panied her father and mother to a neighboring market 
town, where they frequently went to make purchases, 
as they lived in the country. She had often been with 
them on former occasions ; but it was with sensations 
entirely new that she now walked through the busy 
streets of this town, and passed its long rows of well- 
furnished shops. Heretofore she had surveyed the 
various tempting articles they exhibited merely as an 
amusing spectacle ; and with no more idea of possess- 
ing any of them than one has of purchasing the curi- 
osities of a museum. But now circumstances were 
altered. Here were things, and pretty things too, that 
she might have if she pleased. And this thought, not- 
withstanding Ruth's prudent temper and good resolu- 
tions, presented itself to her mind temptingly. 

The first thing that struck her as a real desideratum 
was a steel purse, of which she saw several glittering in 
a jeweller's window. There w^ere also silver ones, but 
of these she did not allow herself to think. A new 
purse, now that she had so much more to do with 
money, appeared very suitable for a first pujrchase. 



176 I CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 

"Mamma," said she,^ touching her mother's elbow, 
" would you stop one minute ? I think I should like 
one of those purses." Her mother, who was aware 
that this day's excursion would prove rather trying to 
her daughter's prudence, replied, " Yes, I will stop a 
minute ; but we will wait here, that you may have time 
to consider, before you go in, whether you want a new 
purse." "To be sure," said Ruth, after a moment's 
thought, " I have my old silk one ; but then, — ah 
well, I can do without it," she added ; and without 
giving another look at the shop window, she hastened 
on. " Now," said her mother, " you have saved five 
or six shillings, by that moment's consideration." 

At this time beaver hats, trimmed with satin, were 
much worn. There was a capital hatter's in the town ; 
where two large bow windows, furnished with every 
variety of shade and shape, to suit all fancies, caught 
the eye of the fair passenger, — some loaded with nod- 
ding plumes, others with most becoming pink satin 
linings, and trimmings to match, and some with broad 
embossed bands, and dangling tassels. 

" Mamma," said Ruth again, as they passed this shop, 
" would you stop one minute ? Don't you think a bea- 
ver hat would be very warm and comfortable for me 
this winter ? And besides how it would save my straw ! 
This is a very pretty one, is it not ? — just my size, I 
should think. Shall we go in and inquire the price? " 

" If you wish it, we will," replied her mother. So 
they entered the shop, where a genteelly dressed lady 
was then in the act of purchasing one of the very 
same shape. Ruth seeing this, jogged her mother, 
that she might notice such a sanction to her own choice. 
They now inquired the price of the article in question. 
" That hat, ladies, is one guinea, only," said the shop- 
keeper. 

Ruth darted an inquiring look at her mother, to know 
whether she thought it cheap or dear. " You recollect 



/ CAN DO WITHOUT IT 177 

your straw hat, I suppose, my dear," said her mother. 
" Straws, ma'am," interrupted the shopkeeper, " are now 
considered uncommonly common, — quite oiit^ in fact. 
We have a surprising demand for beavers at the present 
time ; our manufacturer assures me he cannot get them 
made up fast enough." 

Ruth's respect for beavers and contempt of straws 
were wonderfully heightened by this speech. 

"Allow me, ma'am," continued he, "to recommend 
the young lady to try it on." Ruth knowing this would 
be a hazardous experiment, again looked at her mother. 
She then reflected a moment (which it must be con- 
fessed is a difficult thing to do dispassionately in a 
room full of hats and bonnets), and then whispered to 
her mother, " I wish we had not come in, for after all 
I could do without it." " I am very sorry we have 
given you any trouble, sir," said her mother to the shop- 
keeper, "I believe we shall not purchase one this 
morning." The shopkeeper bowed coldly ; and whether 
he or Ruth felt most disappointed it would be hard to 
determine. 

Soon afterwards her mother had occasion to go to 
the stationer's. This shop displayed a great variety of 
articles of different sorts and value, from toys to tele- 
scopes. After looking about for some time, Ruth said 
to her mother, "I am very glad I did not buy a beaver 
hat, how much better it would be to have something 
that would last I See, are not these pretty?" added 
she, pointing to some small plated inkstands, " they 
are only fifteen shillings, I find." Her mother smiled. 
" Ah, you are thinking of my writing-desk. Very 
true I can certainly do without it," continued Ruth; 
and with this consideration she got safely out of the 
shop. 

Her mother had now finished her business in the 
town ; but as they were returning to the inn, a pastry 
cook's window reminded Ruth of a new want. 



178 / CAAT DO WITHOUT IT 

^' Mamma/' said she, " are not you hungry ? I am, ver}' ; 
had not we better go in and have something? " 

" I thought you brought some biscuits in your bas- 
ket," said her mother. ^'True, so I did," said Ruth, 
'' so we can do without it." 

When they reached the inn, the chaise not being 
ready, Ruth's mother drew out her pencil, and . wrote 
something on the back of a bill ; which she then handed 
to her daughter, saying, " See my dear, if I have cast this 
up right." Ruth took the paper, and read the follow- 
ing account. 

A steel purse 056 

Beaver hat i 10 

Plated inkstand ....0150 

Sundry tarts 0010 

Total, saved by doing without it . . £2 2 4 

Ruth smiled, and said, " Yes, mamma, it is quite right ; 
and if it had not been for you I should have been quite 
wrong." '' Nay, Ruth," rephed her mother, '' I must 
give you some credit this morning, for having yielded 
so easily to my suggestion. Prudence does not consist 
in not being tempted, but in not yielding to temptation. 
Yes, you have saved at least 2/. 2s, 4^. this morning 
by the timely use of those few simple . words ; and I 
think they would form an excellent motto for you, now 
that you are intrusted with the disposal of money." 
"Yes," said Ruth, quite delighted, "I can do without 
it : this shall be my motto ; I will write it on the Hd of 
my money box.; it is an excellent motto, mamma ! " 

When Ruth returned home, she was pleased to think 
not only that she had saved her money, but that not 
one of the articles she had wished for was really wanted. 
She now congratulated herself that, to the mere pleas- 
ure of novelty, which would have lasted but a few 
hours, she had not sacrificed a sum which would, by 



/ cajV do without it. 179 

and by, purchase things that she would really want, 
and that she could 7iot do without. Unnecessary ex- 
penses always rob either ourselves or others. We 
either deprive ourselves of something essential to our 
comfort afterwards, or defraud the poor and destitute 
of their just claims. Economy and liberality go hand 
in hand. 

Ruth found, during many future years, that the 
motto thus early adopted, was of excellent use as a 
check upon her expenditure. Indeed, it led her to 
form habits of self-denial which were of essential impor- 
tance to her during life. She was always dressed with 
a graceful simplicity, far more pleasing to persons of 
good sense and good taste than a more studied style ; 
and thus, by purchasing only such things as she could 
not with comfort and propriety do without, she had 
always a little overplus with which to relieve her poor 
neighbors, and for other useful purposes. '^ Ah," said 
she to her mother, as she was making up a flannel gown 
for an old " goody " who was " sadly bad of the rheuma- 
tize,*' " poor Betty Brown would have been obHged to 
do without this, if I had not sometimes recollected — 
I can do without it^ 

There is no danger of economy degenerating into 
covetousness, when what is saved from our needless 
gratification is devoted to the real wants of others. 

" If I had not remembered my motto," thought she, 
on another occasion, " when the man called yesterday 
with his box of lace, I should not have had three and 
six pence to spare for this Bible to-day. And oh, 
how much better I can do without a piece of lace to 
my frock, than my poor neighbor can do without a 
Bible!'' 

How many a superfluous article of dress, how many 
a trifle that wearies or disgusts almost as soon as pos- 
sessed, how many a needless and injurious dainty to 
please the palate, would be dispensed with, and how 



l8o / CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 

many more of the destitute might be relieved, if persons 
would but recollect, and recollect in time, Ruth's excel- 
lent motto — " lean do without it'^ N 



. II. 



This, we remarked, was one of the best mottos in 
the world, or one of the worst. Its excellence has 
appeared in the use made of it by Ruth, the econo- 
mist. We shall now, according to promise, proceed to 
show it in its opposite appropriation. This sentence, 
with some variations, though not professedly adopted 
as a motto, was frequently employed by Eliza, by way 
of excuse for the negligence to which the indolence of 
her disposition continually inclined her. She dishked, 
beyond everything, that patient care which is essential 
to success ; which is requisite in order to do anything 
properly ; and which experience proves to be the best, 
and, in the end, the shortest way in all the concerns of 
life. 

This temper manifested itself in Eliza at an early 
age. Suppose, for example, she was writing an exer- 
cise with a bad pen that spirted, or blotted, or scratched 
like a pin ; rather than take the trouble of mending it, 
she would say to herself, " It will do without it," or " I 
can manage without ; " and thus her writing was rarely 
fit to be seen. 

In like manner, if a slide broke in her frock, or if the 
string came out of her shoe, instead of replacing them 
immediately, she would exclaim, '' How provoking ! 
there 's that tiresome slide gone ! " adding "ah, well, I 
can do without it," and then she would beg somebody 
to pin it for her, — a most untidy thing certainly ; or 
she would go half a day slip-shod for want of a shoe- 
string. It was just the same if a stitch came undone 



/ CAN DO WITHOUT IT l8l 

in any part of her dress, or if she had torn a small rent 
in her frock. Instead of recollecting that true saying 
— ^^ a stitch in time \ saves nine," she would let it go, 
upon the strength of her favorite saying, till it became a 
long job to mend it ; so that her mother used often to 
declare that she had more trouble with Eliza's clothes 
in one month, than Ruth's mamma had with hers in a 
whole year ; and no wonder. 

Eliza met with such frequent instances of the mis- 
chievous tendency of her favorite excuse that one 
would have thought she might have been induced to 
discard it. Scarcely a day passed but she, or those 
around her, suffered more or less from it. Not to 
mention such misfortunes as the frequent falls and 
bruises which occurred from loose shoe-strings, and 
the like. 

One time she sustained a considerable loss for want 
of replacing a button to her pocket. She found it 
was come off one morning ; and saying, as usual, '' I 
can do without it," she substituted a pin. Pins, 
though very useful things in their way, are certainly 
made most use of by lazy, untidy people. Things went 
thus for two or three days ; but at last, as she was 
returning from a long walk, upon feeling for her hand- 
kerchief, she discovered that the pocket with all its con- 
tents, had escaped. Eliza felt this loss considerably ; 
for besides her thimble, a silver knife, a pencil case, 
and a purse with seven and sixpence in it, her pocket 
that day unfortunately contained a beautiful coral neck- 
lace which had lately been presented to her. A very 
improper place for a necklace, it will be said. Very 
true ; but the case was this : Eliza, being fond of 
ornaments, came down that day, prepared for her 
walk, with this necklace slipped over her tippet. To 
this her mother very properly objected, as having a 
tawdry and ungenteel appearance, and desired her to 
take it off. Eliza complied reluctantly ; but instead of 



1 82 / CAJV DO WITHOUT IT 

replacing it safely up stairs, she indolently slipped it 
into her pocket, and thus lost it, as related above. 

Another time, one of her bonnet-strings coming 
unstitched, she fastened it on, as usual, with a pin, and 
going out with it in this state, it came undone when 
she was walking by the river side. The wind being 
high, it blew her bonnet off into the water, and there 
she saw it sailing irrecoverably down the river, like a 
swan. One day her mother gave her a small phial 
containing an acid for taking out ink spots, and other 
stains ; and desired her to write a label for it. 
" Dear ! " said Eliza, when her mother was out of 
hearing, " it will do just as well without it ; " so she 
left it as it was. Soon after, her mother feeling unwell, 
desired Eliza to give her a few drops of sal volatile. 
She went carelessly to find the phial, andi snatching up 
this in mistake, gave her mother a dose of the poi- 
sonous fluid. Being aware of her daughter's careless 
habits, she fortunately tasted a little, before taking the 
w^hole, and so discovered the mistake. Thus it was 
that indolent habits, sanctioned by a foolish saying, 
endangered even the life of her mother. Eliza felt 
these things ; -but she considered them as accidents 
and misfortunes, not as the natural consequences of her 
faults, so that they made no useful impression upon 
her. 

It too often happened that she varied her motto by 
the alternate use of all the personal pronouns. He, 
she, they, or you, can do without it, was as commonly 
heard as it. This was usually the case when any little 
service was required of her by those around ; in which 
case, the struggle between her inactive habits and a 
sense of duty was quickly decided by the use of this 
unfriendly sentence. Her father and mother, her 
brothers and sisters, as well as her neighbors, missed 
many a kind service by this means. 

It must also be observed, that Eliza rarely applied 



/ CAN DO WITHOUT- IT. 183 

these words to herself in the way of restraint. When 
there was anything that she wished for, it was seldom 
indeed that she said, '' I can do without it ; '* for, to 
exercise self-denial, requires an effort of mind much 
more painful to the indolent than any bodily exertion. 
Eliza accordingly treated herself with everything she 
liked that she could by any means get the money to 
purchase ; at the same time laughing at the frugal 
habits of her friend Ruth ; and often prophesying that 
she would die a miser. 

The inactivity and carelessness of Eliza's disposition 
extended to everything in which she was called to 
engage, and lamentably retarded the progress of her 
education. Her father and mother were anxious to 
furnish her with every useful acquirement in their 
power, with a view to her future respectability, useful- 
ness, and independence. But to Eliza the acquisition 
of knowledge, of whatever kind, was extremely irk- 
some. Nothing is to be attained without trouble ; 
and trouble was the thing she could not endure. 
Whatever was proposed to her as a desirable study, 
she used to think, if not to say, that she could do 
without it. Therefore, notwithstanding the cost and 
pains that were bestowed upon her, she grew up ill- 
informed and unfurnished. Even reading was a toil 
which she thought she could do as well without, unless 
a book happened to be merely entertaining. 

It will not be imagined that a person so slothful in 
business should be " fervent in spirit," or active in 
'' serving the Lord." The concerns of the soul, in- 
deed, are the first to suffer from an indolent temper. 
If ^* the kingdom of heaven must suffer violence," and 
if even the violent can only " take it by force," how 
shall the feeble and languid efforts of indolence pre- 
vail? Alas, religion was one of the things that poor 
Eliza was contented to do without. In spite of a pious 
education, and occasional impressions, she too often 



1 84 / CAN DO WITHOUT IT. 

excused her neglect of prayer, and other means of 
grace, by the secret application of her favorite sen- 
tence. 

At length a time arrived, long anticipated by her 
parents, when their circumstances rendered it neces- 
sary that Eliza should do something for her own main- 
tenance ; and now, notwithstanding all the pains that had 
been bestowed upon her education, the utmost that 
could be said of her, in an advertisement drawn up by 
her disappointed father, was to this effect : 

" Wants a situation as governess to the younger 
children in a private family, or as under teacher in a 
school, a young person of respectable connections who 
is qualified to teach the rudiments of English grammar, 
to superintend plain work, or to make herself useful in 
any way that may be required." 

How different an account would have been given of 
Eliza's qualifications, and in how different a sphere 
might she have moved, if she had not so often thought 
and said of this attainment, and of that pursuit, '' I can 
do without it ! " 

In these humbling circumstances, she amused her- 
self with fruitless wishes for a fortune, in order that she 
might not be obliged to exert herself; not considering 
that the same inactive temper which makes a poor 
person helpless and dependent, renders the rich dis- 
contented and miserable. 

We cannot stay to detail the subsequent misfortunes 
of EHza. It is sufficient to say that a time arrived 
when she had some practical experience of the virtues 
of her motto, in a way little desired. Instead of saying, 
as formerly, '' I can do without it," she was compelled 
very often to say, " I must do without ; " and that, not 
in reference to the luxuries of life, but to some of its 
most essential wants. How much better it is to say, 
" I can do without it," of a superfluity, than to say, " I 
must do without it," of a comfort ! Let those who would 



THE SORE TONGUE. 1 85 

avoid all danger of the latter, early enter into the spirit 
of the former ; and let them learn nicely to distinguish 
between those things which, without any real privation 
may be done without, and those which cannot be 
neglected but by the sacrifice of respectability, useful- 
ness, and happiness. 



THE SORE TONGUE. 

There was a little girl called Fanny, who had the 
misfortune one day to bite her tongue as she was eat- 
ing her breakfast. It hurt her so much that she could 
scarcely help crying ; and even when the first smart 
was over, it continued so sore that whenever she spoke 
it pained her considerably. Finding this to be the 
case, she said very pitifully to her mother, '' Mamma, 
you can't think how it hurts me w^ien I speak ! " 
" Does it ? " replied her mother ; '•' then I '11 tell you 
what I would advise you to do. Resolve all this day 
to say nothing but what is either necessary or useful ; 
this will give your tongue a fine holiday, and may 
answer more purposes than one." 

Fanny, knowing that she had the character of being 
somewhat loquacious, could not help laughing at this, 
and said, '' Well, I \\ill try for once ; so, mum ! I am 
going to begin now, mamma." 

Mother. Do so ; and whenever you are beginning 
to speak, be sure you ask yourself whether what you 
were going to say was likely to be of any use, or whether 
it was necessar}'. 

Faxx\'. Yes, yes, I \^all ! but don't talk to me, 
mamma, for fear. So saying, she screwed up her lips, 
and taking her work, sat for about five minutes as still 
as a mouse. She then looked up, smiled, and nodded 



1 86 THE SORE TONGUE, 

at her mother, as much as to say, " See how well I 
can hold my tongue/' still screwing her lips very tight 
for fear she should speak. Soon however she began 
to feel a great inclination to say something ; and was 
glad to recollect that if she could but think of anything 
either useful or necessary, she might speak. Where- 
upon she endeavored to find something to say that 
would come " within the act." To aid her invention, 
she looked all round the room. 

Fanny. Mamma, don't you think the fire wants stir- 
ring? (This question, she thought, savored of both 
qualifications.) 

Mother. Not at present, my dear. 

Then followed another long silence ; for Fanny found 
it vastly more difficult than she had any previous idea 
of, to think of anything useful to talk about ; and she 
knew her mamma would laugh at her if she said what 
was obviously idle or silly, just now. She was beginning 
to repent having made such an agreement, when her 
three elder sisters entered the room. She now thought 
it quite reasonable, if not absolutely necessary, to tell 
them of her misfortune ; which she did at considerable 
length, and with many needless digressions (the usual 
custom with great talkers) ; upon which they all laughed, 
prophesying that her resolution would not last half an 
hour, and rallying her for telling such a long story with 
a sore tongue. 

Soon after, some ladies called to pay their mother a 
morning visit. This gave Fanny's tongue such a long 
rest, that the moment they were gone it seemed irre- 
sistibly to resume its wonted functions. 

Fanny. What a while old Mrs. W. has had that 
brown satin pelisse ! Really, poor old lady, I am 
quite tired of seeing her in it ! 

Mother. How is your tongue, Fanny? 

Fanny. Oh, better, mamma, thank you, almost 
well. 



THE SORE TONGUE. 187 

Mother. I am sorry for it : I was in hopes it 
would have been sore enough at least to prevent your 
making impertinent remarks upon anybody all this 
day. 

Fanny. No, but really, mamma, is it not an old 
rubbishing thing ? 

Mother. I don't know, indeed. It is no business 
of mine ; therefore I took no notice of it. 

A silence ensued after this ; but conversation re- 
vived when Caroline, who had stood for some time 
with her eyes fixed on their opposite neighbor's win- 
dow, suddenly exclaimed, ^^ I do beheve the Jones's 
are going to have company again to-day ! The ser- 
vant has just been lighting the fire in the drawing- 
room ; and there is Miss Jones now gone up to dress. 
I saw her draw down the blinds in her room this 
instant." '' So she is," said Lucy, looking up : "I 
never knew such people in my Ufe ! they are always 
having company." 

" I wonder who they are expecting to-day ! " said 
Eliza, "dinner company, I suppose." 

The proceedings of their neighbors, the Jones's, 
continued to furnish matter for various sagacious con- 
jectures and remarks for a considerable time. At 
length Caroline exclaimed with the eagerness of dis- 
covery, " Look ! look ! there 's the baker now at the 
door, with a whole tray full of tarts and things. Make 
haste, or he '11 be gone in." 

Lucy. So he is, I declare ; it is a dinner-party 
then. Well, we shall see presently, I hope, who are 
coming. 

Caroline. O no, they never dine till ^w^ when 
they have company. 

Eliza. And it will be dark then ; how tiresome ! 

Lucy. If Miss Jones is not dressed already ! She 
is this instant come into the drawing-room. 

Caroline. Stand back, stand back ! Don't let her 



l88 THE SORE TONGUE, 

see us all staring. Ah, there she is, — got on her pink 
sarcenet body and sleeves to-day. How pretty that 
dress is, to be sure ! 

Eliza. And how nicely she has done her hair ! 
Look, Caroline — braided behind. 

Lucy. There, she is putting down the sash. That 
chimney smokes, I know, with this wind. 

Fanny. And there is that little figure, Martha 
Jones, come down now. Do look, — as broad as she 
is long ! What a httle fright that child is, to be sure ! 

Mother. Pray, Fanny, was that remark useful or 
necessary ? 

Fanny. Oh, but mamma, I assure you, my tongue 
is quite well now. 

Mother. I am sorry for it, my dear. Do you 
know, I should think it well worth while to bite my 
tongue every day, if there were no other means of 
keeping it in order. 

At this the girls laughed ; but their mother resum- 
ing her gravity, thus continued : 

" My dear girls, I should before now have put a 
stop to this idle gossipping, if I had not hoped to con- 
vince you of the folly of it. It is no wonder, I confess, 
that at your age you should learn to imitate a style of 
remark which is but too prevalent in society. Nothing, 
indeed, is more contagious. But let me also tell you, 
that girls of your age, and of your advantages, are 
capable of seeing the meanness of it, and ought to 
despise it. It is the chief end of education to raise 
the minds of women above such trifling as this. But if 
a young person who has been taught to think, whose 
taste has been cultivated, and who might therefore 
possess internal resources, has as much idle curiosity 
about the affairs of her neighbors, and is as fond of 
retailing petty scandal concerning them, as an unedu- 
cated woman, it proves that her mind is incurably 
mean and vulgar, and that cultivation is lost upon 
her. 



THE SORE TONGUE. 189 

^^This sort of gossipping, my dear girls, is the dis- 
grace of our sex. The pursuits of women lying nec- 
essarily within a narrow sphere, they naturally sink, 
unless raised by refinement, or by strong principle, 
into that littleness of character, for which even their 
own husbands and fathers (if they are men of sense) 
are tempted to despise them. The minds of men, 
from their engagements in business, necessarily take a 
larger range ; and they are, in general, too much occu- 
pied with concerns comparatively important, to enter 
into the minute details w^hich amuse women. But 
women of education have no such plea to urge. 
When your father and I direct you to this or that 
pursuit, it is not so much for the sake of your possess- 
ing that particular branch of knowledge ; but that by 
knowledge m general you may become intelligent and 
superior ; and that you may be furnished with resources 
which will save you from the miserable necessity of 
seeking amusement from intercourse wath your neigh- 
bors, and an acquaintance with their affairs. 

"Let us suppose, now, that this morning you had 
been all more industriously inclined ; and had been 
engaged in any of your employments with that ardor 
which some happy young people manifest in the 
acquisition of knowledge ; would you, in that case, 
have felt any desire to know the date of Mrs. W.'s 
pelisse ; or any curiosity in the proceedings of our 
neighbors the Jones's? No, you would then have 
thought it a most impertinent interruption, if any one 
had attempted to entertain you with such particulars. 
But when the mind is indolent and empty, then it can 
receive amusement from the most contemptible 
sources. Learn, then, to check this mean propensity. 
Despise such thoughts whenever you are tempted to 
indulge them. Recollect that this low curiosity is the 
combined result of idleness, ignorance, emptiness and 
ill-nature; and fly to useful occupation^ as the most 



190 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 

successful antidote against the evil. Nor let it be 
forgotten that such impertinent remarks as these come 
directly under the description of those " idle words ^^^ 
of which an account must be given in the day of judg- 
ment. Yes, this vulgar trifling is as inconsistent with 
the spirit of Christian benevolence, and with the grand 
rule of ' doing to others as we would that they should 
do to us,' as it is with refinement of taste and dignity 
of character." " Who would have thought," said little 
, Fanny, " that my happening to bite my tongue this 
morning, would have led to all this? " 

" It would be a fortunate. bite for you, Fanny," said 
her mother, " and for your neighbors, if it should make 
you more careful in the use of it. If we were liable 
to such a misfortune whenever we use our tongues 
improperly, some persons would be in a constant 
agony. Now, if our consciences were but half as sensible 
as our nerves, they would answer the purpose much 
better. Foolish talking pains a good conscience, just 
as continual speaking hurts a sore tongue ; and if we 
did but regard one smart as much as the other, it 
would act as a constant check upon the unruly mem- 
ber." 



THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 

An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a far- 
mer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of 
complaint, early one summer's morning, before the 
family was stirring, suddenly stopped. 

Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) 
changed countenance with alarm ; the hands made an 
ineffectual effort to continue their course ; the wheels 
remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung 



THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 19 1 

speechless ; each member felt disposed to lay the blame 
on the others. At length, the dial instituted a formal 
inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation ; when hands, 
wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their in- 
nocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from 
the pendulum, who thus spoke : 

" I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present 
stoppage ; and am willing, for the general satisfaction, 
to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of 
ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so 
enraged that it was on the point of striking. 

" Lazy wire ! " exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up 
its hands. 

" Very good ! " replied the pendulum, '' it is vastly 
easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every- 
body knows, set yourself up above me, — it is vastly 
easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness ! 
You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your 
life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse your- 
self with watching all that goes on in the kitchen ! 
Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut 
up for life in this dark closet, and wag backwards and 
forwards, year after year, as I do." 

"As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window 
in your house on purpose for you to look through? " 

" For all that," resumed the pendulum, " it is very 
dark here ; and although there is a window, I dare not 
stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am 
really weary of my way of life ; and if you please, I '11 
tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. 
This morning I happened to be calculating how many 
times I should have to tick in the course only of the 
next twenty- four hours. Perhaps some of you above 
there, can give me the exact sum." 

The minute hand, being quick at figures, instantly 
replied, " Eighty-six thousand, four hundred times." 

" Exactly so," replied the pendulum. " Well, I ap- 



192 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM, 

peal to you all, if the thought of this was not enough 
to fatigue one ! And when I began to multiply the 
strokes of one day by those of months and years, really 
it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect. So, 
after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I 
to myself — I'll stop." 

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during 
this harangue ; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied : 

" Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that 
such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have 
been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true 
you have done a great deal of work in your time. So 
we have all, and are likely to do ; and although this 
may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether 
it will fatigue us to do; would you now do me the 
favor to give about half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my 
argument? " 

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its 
usual pace : — " Now," resumed the dial, " may I be 
allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing 
or disagreeable to you? " 

" Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; " it is 
not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of 
millions y 

'' Very good," replied the dial. ^* But recollect that 
although you may think of a million strokes in an in- 
stant, you are required to execute but one ; and that 
however often you may hereafter have to swing, a 
moment will always be given you to swing in." 

" That consideration staggers me, I confess," said 
the pendulum. 

"Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all 
immediately return to our duty ; for the maids will lie 
in bed till noon if we stand idling thus." 

Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused 
of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him 
to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels 



THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM, 193 

began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum 
began to wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; 
while a beam of the rising sun that streamed through a 
hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial- 
plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter. 
When the farmer came down to breakfast that morn- 
ing, upon looking at the clock he declared that his 
watch had gained half an hour in the night. 

MORAL. 

It is said by a celebrated modem writer, " Take care 
of the minutes and the hours will take care of them- 
selves." This is an admirable hint; and might be very 
seasonably recollected when we begin to be " weary in 
well doing," from the thought of having a great deal to 
do. T\\^ present is all we have to manage. The past 
is irrecoverable ; the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair 
to burden one moment with the weight of the next. 
Sufficient unto the mome7it is the trouble thereof. If 
we had to walk a hundred miles, we still need set but 
one step at a time, and this process continued would 
infallibly bring us to our journey's end. Fatigue gen- 
erally begins, and is always increased by calculating in 
a minute the exertion of hours. 

Thus, in looking forward to future life let us recollect 
that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its 
sufferings, or to encounter all its crosses at once. One 
moment comes laden with its own little burden, then 
flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the 
last ; if 07ie could be sustained, so can another, and 
another. 

Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit 
may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, 
the labors, the trials to temper and patience that may 
be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the burden 
of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one 

13 



194 BUSY IDLENESS. 

resolve to do right now, leaving then to do as it can, 
and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would 
never err. But the common error is to resolve to act 
right to-morrow, or next ttme^ but now, just this once, 
we must go on the same as ever. 

It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, 
merely because we forget that when to-morrow comes, 
theji will be now. Thus life passes, with many, in reso- 
lutions for the future which the present never fulfils. 

It is not thus with those who, '^hy patient contimi- 
ance in well doing, seek for glory, honor and immortal- 
ity." Day by day, minute by minute, they execute 
the appointed task to which the requisite measure of 
time and strength is proportioned ; and thus, having 
worked while it was called day, they at length rest from 
their labors, and their ''works follow them." 

Let us then, " whatever our hands find to do, do it 
with all our might ; " recollecting that now is the proper 
and the accepted time. 



BUSY IDLENESS. 

Mrs. Dawson being obliged to leave home for six 
weeks, her daughters, Charlotte and Caroline, received 
permission to employ the time of her absence as they 
pleased. That is, she did not require of them the 
usual strict attention to particular hours, and particular 
studies, but allowed them to choose their own employ- 
ments, — only recommending them to make a good 
use of the hcense, and apprising them, that, on her 
return, she should require an exact account of the 
manner in which the interval had been employed. 

The carriage that conveyed their mother away was 



BUSY IDLENESS. 1 95 

scarcely out of hearing, when Charlotte, delighted with 
her freedom, hastened up stairs to the school-room, 
where she looked around on books, globes, maps, 
drawings, to select some new employment for the 
morning. Long before she had decided upon any, her 
sister had quietly seated herself at her accustomed 
station, thinking that she could do nothing better than 
finish the French exercise she had begun the day 
before. Charlotte, however, declined attending to 
French that day, and after much indecision, and 
saying, " I have a great mind to," three several times 
without finishing the sentence, she at last took down a 
volume of Cowper, and read in different parts for about 
half an hour. Then throwing it aside, she said she 
had a great mind to put the book shelves in order, — 
a business which she commenced with great spirit. 
But in the course of her laudable undertaking, she met 
with a manuscript in short-hand ; whereupon she ex- 
claimed to her sister, " Caroline, don't you remember 
that old Mr. Henderson once promised he would teach 
us short-hand? How much I should like to learn ! 
Only, mamma thought we had not time. But now, this 
would be such a good opportunity. I am sure I could 
learn it well in six weeks ; and how convenient it would 
be 1 One could take down sermons, or anything ; and 
I could make Rachel learn, and then how very pleas- 
ant it would be to write to each other in short-hand ! 
Indeed, it would be convenient in a hundred ways." 
So saying, she ran up stairs, without any further delay, 
and putting on her hat and spencer, set off to old Mr. 
Henderson's. 

Mr. Henderson happened to be at dinner. Never- 
theless, Charlotte obtained admittance on the plea of 
urgent business ; but she entered his apartment so 
much out of breath, and in such apparent agitation, 
that the old gentleman, rising hastily from table, and 
looking anxiously at her over his spectacles, inquired in 



196 BUSY IDLENESS. 

a tremulous tone, what was the matter. When, there- 
fore, Charlotte explained her busmess, he appeared a 
little disconcerted ; but having gently reproved her for 
her undue eagerness, he composedly resumed his knife 
and fork, though his hand shook much more than 
usual during the remainder of his meaL However, 
being very good-natured, as soon as he had dined he 
cheerfully gave Charlotte her first lesson in short-hand, 
promising to repeat it regularly every morning. 

Charlotte returned home in high glee. She at this 
juncture considered short-hand as one of the most 
useful, and decidedly the most interesting of acquire- 
ments ; and she continued to exercise herself in it all 
the rest of the day. She was exceedingly pleased at 
being able already to write two or three words which 
neither her sister nor even her father could decipher. 
For three successive mornings Charlotte punctually 
kept her appointment with Mr. Henderson ; but on the 
fourth she sent a shabby excuse to her kind master ; 
and, if the truth must be told, he from that time saw 
no more of his scholar. Now the cause of this deser- 
tion was two-fold : first, and principally, her zeal for 
short-hand, which for the last eight- and-forty hours 
had been sensibly declining in its temperature, was, on 
the above morning, within half a degree of freezing 
point ; and, second, a new and far more arduous and 
important undertaking had by this time suggested itself 
to her mind. Like many young persons of desultory 
incHnations, Charlotte often amused herself with writing 
verses ; and it now occurred to her that an abridged 
history of England in verse was still a desideratum in 
literature. She commenced this task with her usual 
diligence ; but was somewhat discouraged in the outset 
by the difficulty of finding a rhyme to Saxon, whom 
she indulged the unpatriotic wish that the Danes had 
laid a tax on. But, though she got over this obstacle 
by a new construction of the line, she found these diflfi- 



BUSY IDLENESS. 197 

culties occur so continually that she soon felt a more 
thorough disgust at this employment than at the pre- 
ceding one. So the epic stopped short, some hundred 
years before the Norman conquest. Difficulty, which 
quickens the ardor of industry, always damps, and 
generally extinguishes, the false zeal of caprice and 
versatility. 

Charlotte's next undertaking was, to be sure, a rapid 
descent from the last in the scale of dignity. She now 
thought, that, by working very hard during the re- 
mainder of the time, she should be able to accomplish 
a patch- work counterpane, large enough for her own 
little tent bed ; and the ease of this employment formed a 
most agreeable contrast in her mind with the extreme 
difficulty of the last. Accordingly, as if commissioned 
with a search-warrant, she ransacked all her mother's 
drawers, bags, and bundles in quest of new pieces ; and 
these spoils proving very insufficient, she set off to tax 
all her friends, and to tease all the linen-drapers in the 
town for their odds and ends ; urging that she wanted 
some particularly. As she was posting along the street 
on this business, she espied at a distance a person 
whom she had no wish to encounter; namely, old 
Mr. Henderson. To avoid the meeting she crossed 
over. But this manoeuvre did not succeed ; for no 
sooner had they come opposite to each other, than, to 
her great confusion, he called out across the street, in 
his loud and tremulous voice, and shaking his stick at 
her, " How d' ye do, Miss Shorthand ] I thought 
how it would be ! Oh, fie ! Oh, fie ! " 

Charlotte hurried on ; and her thoughts soon re- 
turned to the idea of the splendid radiating star which 
she designed for the centre-piece of her counterpane. 
While she was arranging the different patterns, and 
forming the alterations of light and shade, her interest 
continued nearly unabated ; but when she came to the 
practical part of sewing piece to piece with unvarying 



19S BUSY IDLENESS. 

sameness, it began, as usual, to flag. She sighed sev- 
eral times, and cast many disconsolate looks at the 
endless hexagons and octagons, before she indulged 
any distinct idea of relinquishing her task. At length, 
however, it did forcibly occur to her that, after all, 
she was not obliged to go on with it ; and that, really, 
patch- work was a thing that was better done by de- 
grees, when one happens to want a job, than to be 
finished all at once. So, with this thought (which 
would have been a very good one if it had occurred 
in proper time), she suddenly drew out her needle, 
thrust all her pieces, arranged and unarranged, into a 
drawer, and began to meditate a new project. 

Fortunately, just at this juncture some young ladies 
of their acquaintance called upon Charlotte and Caro- 
line. They were attempting to establish a society 
amongst their young friends for working for the poor, 
and came to request their assistance. Caroline very 
cheerfully entered into the design ; but as for Char- 
lotte, nothing could exceed the forwardness of her 
zeal. She took it up so warmly that Caroline's ap- 
peared, in comparison, only lukewarm. It was pro- 
posed that each member of the society should have 
an equal proportion of the work to do at her own 
house ; but when the articles came to be distributed, 
Charlotte, in the heat of her benevolence, desired that 
a double portion might be allotted to her. Some of 
the younger ones admired her industrious intentions, 
but the better judging advised her not to undertake 
too much at once. However, she w^ould not be satis- 
fied till her request was complied with. When the 
parcels of work arrived, Charlotte with exultation 
seized the larger one, and without a minute's delay 
commenced her charitable labors. The following 
morning she rose at four o'clock, to resume the em- 
ployment ; and not a little self-complacency did she 
feel, when, after nearly two hours' hard work, she still 



BUSY IDLENESS. 1 99 

heard Caroline breathing in a sound sleep. But, alas ! 
Charlotte soon found that work is work^ of whatever 
nature, or for whatever purpose. She now inwardly 
regretted that she had asked for more than her share ; 
and the cowardly thought that after all she was not 
obliged to do it next occurred to her. For the present, 
therefore, she squeezed all the things, done and undone, 
into what she called her '' Dorcas bag ; " and to banish 
unpleasant thoughts, she opened the first book that 
happened to lie within reach. It proved to be " an 
Introduction to Botany." Of this she had not read 
more than a page and a half before she determined to 
collect some specimens herself; and having found a 
blank copy-book she hastened into the garden, where, 
gathering a few common flowers, she proceeded to dis- 
sect them, not, it is to be feared, with much scientific 
nicety. Perhaps as many as three pages of this copy- 
book were bespread with her specimens before she 
discovered that botany was a dry study. 

It would be too tedious to enumerate all the subse- 
quent ephemeral undertakings which filled up the re- 
mainder of the six weeks. At the expiration of that 
time Mrs. Dawson returned. On the next morning after 
her arrival she reminded her daughters of the account 
she expected of their employments during her absence ; 
and desired them to set out on two tables in the school- 
room everything they had done that could be exhib- 
ited, together with the books they had been reading. 
Charlotte would gladly have been excused her part of 
the exhibition ; but this was not permitted ; and she 
reluctantly followed her sister to make the preparation. 

When the two tables were spread, their mother was 
summoned to attend. Caroline's, which was first 
examined, contained, first, her various exercises in the 
different branches of study, regularly executed, the 
same as usual. And there were papers placed in the 
books she was reading in school hours, to show how far 



200 BUSY IDLENESS. 

she had proceeded in them. Besides these, she had 
read in her leisure time, in French, Florian's '' Numa 
Pompihus ; " and in English, Mrs. More's " Practical 
Piety," and some part of Johnson's '' Lives of the 
Poets." All the needle-work which had been left to 
do or not, at her option, was neatly finished ; and her 
parcel of linen for the poor was also completely and 
well done. The only instance in which Caroline had 
availed herself of her mother's license, was, that she 
had prolonged her drawing lessons a little every day, 
in order to present her mother with a pretty pair of 
screens, with flowers copied from nature. These were, 
last of all, placed on the table with an affectionate 
note, requesting her acceptance of them. 
• Mrs. Dawson, having carefully examined this table, 
proceeded to the other, which was quite piled up with 
different articles. Here, amid the heap, were her 
three pages of short-hand ; several scraps of paper 
containing fragments of her poetical history ; the 
piece (not large enough for a doll's cradle) of her 
patchwork counterpane ; her botanical specimens ; 
together with the large unfinished pile out of the Dor- 
cas bag, — many of the articles of which were begun, 
but not one quite finished. There was a baby's cap 
with no border, a frock body without sleeves, and the 
skirt only half hemmed at the bottom ; and slides, tapes, 
and button-holes, were all, without exception, omitted. 
After these, followed a great variety of thirds, halves, 
and quarters of undertakings, each perhaps good in 
itself, but quite useless in its unfinished state. 

The examination being at length ended, Mrs. Dawson 
retired, without a single comment, to her dressing- 
room ; where, in about an hour afterwards, she sum- 
moned the girls to attend her. Here also were two 
tables laid out, with several articles on each. Their 
mother then leading Caroline to the first, told her that, 
as the reward of her industry dcn^ perseverance, the con- 



BUSY IDLENESS. 20I 

tents of the table were her own. Here, with joyful 
surprise, she beheld, first, a little gold watch, which 
Mrs. Dawson said she thought a suitable present for 
one who had made a good use of her time ; a small 
telescope next appeared ; and lastly, Paley's '^ Natural 
Theology," neatly bound. Charlotte was then desired 
to take possession of the contents of the other table, 
which were considerably more numerous. The first 
prize she drew out was a very beautiful French fan ; 
but upon opening it, it stretched out in an oblong shape, 
for want of the pin to confine the sticks at bottom. 
Then followed a new parasol ; but when unfurled there 
was no catch to confine it, so that it would not remain 
spread. A penknife handle without a blade, and the 
blade without the handle, next presented themselves 
to her astonished gaze. In great confusion she then 
unrolled a paper which discovered a telescope appar- 
ently like her sister's ; but on applying it to her eye, 
she found it did not contain a single lens, — so that it 
was no better than a roll of pasteboard. She was, how- 
ever, greatly encouraged to discover that the last re- 
maining article was a watch ; for, as she heard it tick, 
she felt no doubt that this at least was complete, but 
upon examination she discovered that there was no 
hour-hand, the minute-hand alone pursuing its lonely 
and useless track. 

Charlotte, whose conscience had very soon explained 
to her the moral of all this, now turned from the 
tantahzing table in confusion, and burst into an agony 
of tears. Caroline wept also, and Mrs. Dawson, after 
an interval of silence, thus addressed her daughters : — 

" It is quite needless for me to explain my reasons 
for making you such presents, Charlotte. I assure you 
your papa and I have had a very painful employment 
the past hour in spoiling them all for you. If I had 
found on your table in the school-room any one thing 
that had been properly finished^ you would have re- 



202 BUSY IDLENESS. 

ceived one complete present to answer it ; but this you 
know was not the case. I should be very glad if this 
disappointment should teach you what I have hitherto 
vainly endeavored to impress upon you, — that as all 
those things, pretty or useful as they are in themselves, 
are rendered totally useless for want of completeness^ so 
exertion without perseverance is no better than busy 
idleness. That employment does not deserve the name 
of industry which requires the stimulus of novelty to 
keep it going. Those who will only work so long as 
they are amused will do no more good in the world, 
either to themselves or others, than those who refuse 
to work at all. If I had required you to pass the six 
weeks of my absence in bed or in counting your fingers, 
you would, I suppose, have thought it a sad waste of 
time ; and yet I appeal to you whether (with the ex- 
ception of an hour or two of needle-work) the whole 
mass of articles on your table could produce anything 
more useful. And thus, my dears, may life be squan- 
dered away, in a succession of busy nothings. 

" I have now a proposal to make to you. These 
presents, which you are to take possession of as they 
are, I advise you to lay by carefully. Whenever you 
can show me anything that you have begun, and volun- 
tarily yf/^/i-/^^^, you may at the same time bring with you 
one of these things, beginning with those of least value, 
to which I will immediately add the part that is defi- 
cient. Thus, by degrees, you may have them all com- 
pleted ; and if by this means you should acquire the 
wise and virtuous habit oi perseverance^ it will be far 
more valuable to you than the richest present you could 
possibly receive.'* 



TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 203 



TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 

In a huge old-fashioned red brick house, with a great 
many tall narrow windows in front, and a high flight of 
stone steps up to the door, lived two old ladies, com- 
monly called Mrs. Abigail and Mrs. Dorothy. They 
had lived there for many and many a year. They never 
altered the fashion of their dress, and were very exact 
and regular in all their habits and customs. Every day 
of the week they were driven out at the same hour, 
in their old-fashioned coach, by their old-fashioned 
coachman ; and at the same hour they returned home ; 
so that when the coach passed through the town, either 
going or returning, everybody knew what was o'clock. 
They neither paid visits nor received company at their 
house ; and the few servants they kept had lived with 
them so many years that none but the aged people of 
the place could remember the least alteration in the 
household. 

The old ladies dressed exactly alike ; and were nearly 
of the same age. Their customs, also, were quite 
similar ; so that to observe them at a distance, it might 
be supposed there was scarcely any difference between 
them. And yet there was a difference. Mrs. Abigail 
was very rich, though nobody knew how rich ; but not 
so Mrs. Dorothy, although she was her own sister. For 
having in her youth in some way displeased the old 
gentleman, her father, he left all his fortune to his eldest 
daughter ; so that Mrs. Dorothy depended almost en- 
tirely upon the bounty — or rather upon the justice — of 
her sister. But this was not the greatest difference be- 
tween them ; for Mrs. Abigail was ill-natured, and Mrs. 
Dorothy was good-natured, — and it is this kind of thing 
that makes the greatest real difference between persons, 



204 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 

in the mind of all those with whom they have to do. The 
consequence of this, in the present instance, was, that all 
the old servants loved Mrs. Dorothy better than they 
loved their mistress ; and waited upon her, not only 
with more affection, but with more respect. And as re- 
spect and affection are things which can neither be con- 
cealed where they are felt, nor successfully imitated where 
they are not, Mrs. Abigail saw as plainly how it was as if 
they had told her so in the most express terms. Now, 
this aggravated her temper beyond anything. She 
thought it so very strange, and hard, and ungrateful, that 
she to whom they were indebted for all they had, who 
paid them such handsome wages and made them such 
generous presents, should be in less esteem than her 
poor sister Dorothy, who had nothing of that sort in 
her power. No ; but *^ such as she had she gave them," 
— and that happened to be of more sterling value than 
their mistress's silver and gold. At first, Mrs. Abigail 
was so impatient under the grievance, that she turned 
away several faithful servants for no other real reason 
than this private one ; but finding that the new comers 
regularly fell into the same fault, she was soon glad to 
recall her old domestics. 

Mrs. Abigail's temper did not soften as she grew 
older. She was vexed and tormented that she could 
not purchase, with all her money, that of which every 
human bosom feels the need ; and every year increased 
both the cause and the effect of her disquietude. There 
was not a tradesman, nor a tenant, nor a neighbor, but 
would touch his hat with more cordiality to Mrs. Dorothy 
than to Mrs. Abigail ; for nobody could help seeing the 
difference. It was even perceptible as they passed 
along in the old coach ; for, while Mrs. Abigail used 
always to sit back in an erect posture, looking neither 
to the right nor the left, the round, good-natured face 
of Mrs. Dorothy might always be seen, sometimes 
smiling at the children, and sometimes nodding to 
the neighbors as she passed their doors. 



TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 205 

Mrs. Abigail used perpetually to complain of her 
wrongs and grievances to Mrs. Dorothy ; who always 
heard her very patiently, and said what she could to 
soften and console her. She very rarely ventured to 
hint either at the reason or the remedy ; for that irri- 
tated Mrs. Abigail beyond anything, and always brought 
forth the whole Ust of her benefactions to witness that 
the fault was not in her. 

After a long succession of years, a circumstance 
occurred in the family which made a greater alteration 
in its aspect than if the China images on the best parlor 
mantel-piece had been transported to the sitting-parlor 
mantel-piece, — which would, however, have been con- 
sidered a most memorable innovation. This was Mrs. 
Abigail's taking it into her head to adopt a little orphan 
girl, — a child scarcely five years of age, the daughter 
of a poor minister lately deceased. 

Little Mary was a very pretty, artless, engaging child. 
Full of spirits, and unconscious of her misfortunes, she 
entered the great house without any adequate idea of 
its dignity, and felt herself quite at home the moment 
she found something to play with. At first, the old 
ladies could not exactly say whether they were most 
amused or most put out by the noisy frolics of their 
new inmate. Mrs. Abigail, at least, felt considerable 
uncertainty on the subject. But Mrs. Dorothy soon 
found that it added materially to her happiness. For 
although she certainly was fidgeted at the unwonted 
sight of doll's clothes strewed upon the carpet, and to 
see the covers to the crimson damask chair-bottoms 
unceremoniously pulled up and left in wrecks and 
wrinkles, and, above all, that the cat's back was some- 
times stroked the wrong way, — yet the innocent smiles, 
the playful gambols, and engaging prattle of the child 
went to her heart and awoke sensations of delight and 
tenderness, which must needs languish, even in bene- 
volent minds, when it is long since they were called 



206 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES, 

into exercise. So much were the good ladies some- 
times amused that the wind might shift from southeast 
to northwest without its being noted by either of them, 
— a thing unprecedented heretofore. And often Mrs. 
Abigail herself was so much diverted by her little 
protegee that she had been observed not to gape more 
than seven times during a whole afternoon. 

But, notwithstanding all this, things did not go on 
quite so smoothly as may be imagined. Mrs. Abigail's 
grand object in adopting the little girl was, that she 
might train up somebody to love her; and having 
heard that you may teach a child anything, she thought 
by taking one so young she should be sure to succeed 
in her design. Accordingly, she resolved to instil it 
into her youthful mind as her highest duty to love her 
benefactress ; and she did not fail by reiterated instruc- 
tions^ to give the child to understand, that, for every- 
thing she eat and wore and played with, she was 
indebted to her alone. Now it was a little strange that, 
after sixty years ^ experience, this good lady did not 
know any better way of securing her object ; and that 
she should imagine that so very small a sacrifice as that 
of giving out a little money from an ample store would 
alone procure so invaluable a blessing as that of the 
affection of a fellow- creature. 

Children are excellent physiognomists, and little 
Mary soon learned to whom to apply for any assistance 
or sympathy in her play; and she never failed, when 
she was tired or sleepy, to run and lay her head on 
Mrs. Dorothy's lap. It happened not unfrequently 
that she was very noisy in her mirth ; so much so, that, 
to use her own expression, " it absolutely went through 
and through Mrs. Abigail's head," and even Mrs. 
Dorothy's did not escape with impunity. Now on 
these and similar occasions, when her patience was 
quite exhausted (which generally happened pretty 
early), Mrs. Abigail would begin to scold; but in spite 



TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES. 207 

of this, and of Mrs. Dorothy's repeated admonitions of 
*' softly ! softly ! my little dear," the Httle dear would 
continue romping about till she got such a thorough 
trimming from Mrs. Abigail as made her cry sadly, and 
wish that her own mamma would come again. When 
the storm was over, the old lady often relented ; and 
trotting to her china closet she would take a sweet 
queen cake or macaroon (articles on which she placed 
her chief dependence in the management of the child) 
and hold it out to her with a beneficent smile, which 
seemed to say, ^' Sure you must love me now." On 
one of these occasions, as soon as Mary had devoured 
the bribe, Mrs. Abigail called her, saying, " Come 
hither, my dear, come to me, and tell me now, don't 
you love me? " Retaining a lively remembrance of her 
recent scolding, the child hesitated ; and on the ques- 
tion being repeated, she answered, " No." 

" Then you are the most ungrateful little creature 
that ever was," exclaimed the old lady \ "- and you may 
take that for your pains." So saying, she gave her a 
smart box on the ear. Mary ran off roaring, and hid 
her face in Mrs. Dorothy's lap. Mrs. Dorothy know- 
ing that would not do, raised her up, saying, — 

" Oh, now you are a very naughty little Miss ! 
What, not love poor Mrs. Abigail, that gives you so 
many pretty things, and such nice cakes ! Oh, fie ! I 
am quite ashamed of you ! Sure, you love her, don't 
you?" 

" I love you,"" said the child, '' because you don't beat 
me." 

" Well, to be sure," exclaimed Mrs. Abigail, " there 
is nothing but ingratitude in this world ! Nothing 
else ; old and young, all alike. Such a little creature 
as that too, — who could have thought it? " 

Thus little Mary had her troubles, Hke other people, 
in the midst of her apparent prosperit}^ However, she 
had a never-failing friend and solace in Mrs. Dorothy ; 



2o8 TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES, 

and when they were alone she would often throw her 
little arms round her neck, and kiss her repeatedly, 
saying,— 

" I do love you ; I do love you very much, Mrs. 
DorotyT In return, Mrs. Dorothy used to kiss her 
fondly, and say, — 

'' And I love you, my darling ! my jewel ! my pretty 
one ! '' never failing to add, " but you know you must 
love poor Mrs. Abigail too ; because she is so good to 
you, and gives you such nice things." At which little 
Mary used to slide off her lap, and run away to play. 

One day Mrs. Abigail was taken very ill, and could 
not leave her bed ; and kind-hearted Mrs. Dorothy 
came down to breakfast with the tears in her eyes. 

"What are you crying for? " says little Mary. 

" Because, my dear, poor Mrs. Abigail is very ill, and 
cannot come down stairs." 

"Why then, you know, we shall have nobody to 
scold us all day; so why do you cry for thati " said 
little Mary. 

In the spring little Mary was attacked with the mea- 
sles, and had them very severely. Notwithstanding her 
ill-nature, Mrs. Abigail was really fond of the child ; 
and she attended her in her illness with much solici- 
tude, took her on her lap, and rocked her to and fro. 
Once, when she was very restless, she spoke to her in 
soothing tones ; and when little Mary, in taking some 
barley water, spilt a little of it over her silk go\vn, and 
began to cry from the apprehension of being punished 
for it, Mrs. Abigail said, " Never mind, love, I '11 not 
be angry with you now^ Upon which little Mary 
raised her head, looked up in her face for a moment 
with surprise, and then said, " I love vou, now, Mrs. 
Abigail." 

Mrs. Abigail looked surprised in her turn. She 
pressed the child to her bosom with unwonted fond- 
ness ; the tears came in her eyes ; for those few words. 



THE MOTH. 209 

uttered by a little child, gave her more real pleasure than 
anything that had happened to her for many a day. 
Being alone, she fell into a deep revery; but the 
thoughts of a person unaccustomed to reflection are 
too indistinct and crude for repetition. However, the 
sense and the substance of her meditation was some- 
thing like this : — 

" What ! will one kind word, one act of forbearance 
and good-nature, do more than all the favors I have 
bestowed ? Oh, if I had considered this in early life, 

— if I had but seen that it is not money but kindness, 
not gifts, but good-nature, that purchases affection, 

— how differently would my life have passed. Ah, 
sister Dorothy ! Sister Dorothy ! I have had all the 
money, but you have had all the happiness ! " 



THE MOTH. 

A MILD September evening ; twilight already steal- 
ing over the landscape shades yonder sloping cornfield, 
whence the merry reapers have this day borne away 
the last sheaf. A party of gleaners have since gathered 
up the precious fragments. Now all are gone. The 
harvest moon is up ; a low mist rising from the river 
floats in the valley. There is a gentle stirring amongst 
the leaves of the tall elm that shades our roof; all 
besides is still. The gray and quiet scene invites 
reflection. 

Wishing the reader to participate in our meditations, 
we were in the very act of committing to paper some 
sage considerations on the departure of another sum- 
mer. But a very small and elegant moth, attracted by 
the candles, has this moment descended on the sheet, 

14 



2IO THE MOTH. 

within an inch of our pen, and with the light stroke of 
his wing has broken our thread of thought. Will the 
reader excuse it if it break his also ? 

The delicacy and perfection of its form, the exqui- 
site lace-work of its airy wing, its swift and noiseless 
movements, a body nearly as ethereal and unincum- 
bered as if it were a soul, its independence, its inno- 
cence, awaken admiration; and (contrasted with the 
inertness and languor with which our cumbrous frames 
are often oppressed) might excite envy too. 

Who can guess what are its imaginings concerning 
the extensive plain on which it has just arrived ? Is it 
a field of dazzling light, an enchanted region of pleas- 
ure and brightness ? He flutters his wings as though 
his dreams of joy were at length realized. From the 
dun shades of the evening without, he has suddenly 
launched into a new world of magic splendor, illumined 
with radiant suns. How little does he think (of this 
at least we may be sure) that this shining plain is no 
other than a sheet of foolscap ; that those glorious 
suns are inglorious candles ! Such are the illusions of 
moths ! 

It would be very desirable, some young reader may 
think, if it were possible, to undeceive him ; and 
supposing him capable of understanding it, to rectify 
all his mistakes, by addressing him in some such lan- 
guage as this : " You are only a moth ; and you have 
no idea what insignificant things moths are ! You know 
nothing at all ; you can't imagine what an astonishing 
number of things there are that you have not even 
heard of. We think nothing of you ; tve are really of 
importance ;n but you are of no importance, — you are 
only an insect. You sometimes do us mischief by eat- 
ing holes in our clothes, and very tiresome it is that 
such little creatures as you should be able to do us 
mischief. Having this opportunity, I must desire you 
not to do so any more, for what you eat is not at all 



THE MOTH. 211 

nice ; it is cloth, not food ; why should you eat doth ? 
I wish you would mention this to all your relations. 
And as to the place that you now are upon, it is nothing 
in the world but a sheet of paper that a person is writ- 
ing on. But you don't know what writing means, I 
dare say. Indeed, it is no use talking to you, you are 
so extremely ignorant, moth." 

With a few variations, how suitable would be such 
an address to some things that are 7iot moths ! And to 
beings a little higher than ourselves in the scale of 
reason, how similar to those of the moth must appear 
the illusions of men ! How many of the objects of 
our ardent pursuit are as destitute of intrinsic excel- 
lence, as empty of happiness, as we know the glare of 
the light to be in which an insect so joyously flutters 
its wings ! It does not, indeed, require the intellect 
of an angel to know this j experience teaches it, at 
last, even to dull scholars. Children can laugh at the 
folly of an insect; youths soon learn to ridicule the 
toys and sports of children ; men smile at the vanities 
of youth ; wise men at the pleasures of weak men — 
and not seldom at their own ; while angels look down 
with surprise and pity on all — smiling most at the 
mistakes of the man, and least at those of the moth ! 

Fortunately enough for our moral, the little hero of 
the piece has this moment expired in the flame of the 
candle ; and that in spite of the most praiseworthy 
exertions on our part to deter him from the rash ad- 
venture. In vain we whisked our quill in every dis- 
suasive attitude (an employment, by the way, to which 
we are but too much accustomed), he was resolved — 
and could he have given utterance to his feelings, no 
doubt he would have expressed his certain persuasion 
— that it must be a desirable and a delightful thing 
to sport in that elegant flame. Who can witness this 
common catastrophe without observing the analogy, 
and reading the oft-told moral? Even if it had not 



212 THE MOTH'S SONG, 

scorched a single feather, if he could have lived there, 
still, we could assure him, he could not Jind happiness 
in a candle. He would have been a thousand times 
more comfortable, as well as more safe, hid in the dark 
folds of the curtain, or fixed within the protection of 
some -broad shadow on the wall, or in any of the nat- 
ural and customary haunts of his species. So is it with 
all unsanctioned pleasures. Even if they were not 
dangerous they would be disappointing. But we know 
they are both the one and the other. 

How quickly was that most complete and dehcate 
machine destroyed ! — an engine which not the united 
sagacity and ingenuity of man could restore ! No 
wonder that so fine and fragile a creature should be 
liable to swift destruction. But let not the strong glory 
in their strength, for behold " we are crushed before 
the moth." 



THE MOTH'S SONG. 

Ah ! what shall I do, 

To express unto you 

What I think, what I feel, what I know and pursue ! 

With my elegant face, 
And my wing of lace. 
How lightly the motes of the evening I chase ! 

Though I am but a moth, 
And feed upon cloth. 
To me it is pleasant and nourishing both. 

And this region of light. 
So broad and so bright. 
It makes my heart dance with a strange delight ! 



THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 213 

If dismal to you, 
'T is the best of the two, 
For oh ! it is pleasant, this wide -shining view ! 

There are lights afar, 
More bright than a star. 
You say they are candles — I '11 see if they are. 

I go, and I fly. 
And so good-by ! — 
Ah me ! what is it ? — I die ! I die ! 



THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 

SiGNOR Pasqualini, just arrived from the Continent, 
announced to the inhabitants of a certain village his 
intention of amusing them, for one evening only, with 
a variety of entertaining exhibitions and performances, 
of unrivalled excellence and ingenuity ; amongst these, 
the manoeuvres of *' The Learned Bird," an ac- 
complished German bullfinch, were particularly speci- 
fied, and largely described in his advertisement. What 
this bird could do seemed not so much to be the ques- 
tion, as what it could not do ; so rare were its professed 
attainments. It could, for instance, go through the 
military exercise with a straw ; bow to the company at 
the word of command ; sing different tunes, when called 
for ; articulate some words ; draw a triangle with its 
beak ; and spell certain names by pointing to the let- 
ters with its claw. 

Amongst the spectators of this entertainment were t^vo 
lads, upon whom it made a strangely different impression. 
One of them, having read the ^advertisement in the 



214 THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 

morning, had his imagination wrought upon all day by 
the glowing descriptions of Signor Pasqualini's hand-bill. 
It was not so much those attributes of the bird that 
were particularly specified as the undefined intimations 
of its sagacity over which his fancy hovered, and which in- 
spired him with so much respect that it is a question if he 
felt more veneration for the learning of the parish school- 
master than for that of this gifted biped. Full of these 
expectations, when evening was come, Edward paid his 
willing sixpence, and entered with trembling eagerness 
from behind the curtain of green baize that formed the 
entrance of the show. As the company thickened, and 
various preliminaries appeared to be going on behind the 
scenes, his impatience increased to a degree that was 
almost painful. At length Signor Pasqualini made his 
appearance and his bow, and after sundry performances, 
not necessary here to specify, a cage with golden wires 
was introduced, out of which solemnly stepped the won- 
derful bird, and immediately hopped upon a perch that 
was raised for the purpose on the table. This bullfinch, 
as to its outward appearance, looked much more like 
other bullfinches than Edward expected. Indeed, the 
hard discipline and solitary life to which its profession 
had subjected it had rendered its plumage less glossy 
and brilHant, and its movements less natural and grace- 
ful, than those of most of its species. Edward was a 
little disappointed at this ; however, he concluded that 
its mental endowments would abundantly compensate 
for any external deficiencies. The first thing required 
of the hapless performer was to bow three times to the 
company. This Edward thought was not very grace- 
fully done. Indeed, the poor little bird, though for 
some time accustomed to practise in private, had but 
newly been introduced at public exhibitions, and it ap- 
peared to be half frightened and half ashamed at per- 
forming before so large a company. Some of its tricks 
were diverting enough ; but many mistakes and blun- 



THE WONDERFUL BIRD. 215 

ders were detected. When, for instance, it was required 
to point to the letters that spell King George, it stum- 
bled upon the last word first, and thus produced only 
the inglorious name of George King, And when asked 
where it was that Lord Wellington gained his great 
victory, whether the bird replied Waterloo or water 
gruel could only be guessed by the question. Edward 
could not help laughing at this ; yet on the whole 
he felt no small degree of disappointment, — so much 
so as to be weary of the performance some time before 
it was over. 

Very different was the impression made by the 
exhibition on another spectator above alluded to. This 
lad had not happened even to see the advertisement ; 
moreover, he had never in all his life heard of such a thing 
as a learned bird. He only stepped in as he was passing, 
attracted by the lights, with no idea of what nature the 
amusement was to be. When therefore the little per- 
former commenced its operations, this boy felt as much 
pleasure and entertainment as the thing was capable 
of affording. He laughed out several times, and pro- 
tested it was " wonderful, really wonderful for such a 
Httle creature ! " He observed indeed some failures 
and mistakes, but for these he made the most charita- 
ble allowances j because, as he said, '' it was but a 
bird ; " and because he had expected nothmg. 

Such were the opposite effects produced by the same 
spectacle on these differently circumstanced observers : 
and yet, perhaps, both would agree, when they came 
to think about it afterwards, that it was a prettier sight 
to see the sparrows and robins hopping about in their 
natural haunts, in gardens and orchards, and pleasanter 
to hear their simple notes, than to stare at the perform- 
ances of the most accomplished finch that ever 
exhibited. 



2i6 A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT, 

MORAL. 

But Stay ; methinks before we part, 

A moral may be heard, — 
A hint to many a sanguine heart 

From this accomplished bird ; 
The truth impressed on every brow, , 
Where time has passed his noiseless plough. 

Just thus from life, and what it yields, 

Hope steals the zest away : 
We never tread the Elysian fields 

Through which we thought to stray ; 
Of all the joys on which we seize. 
The more we hope, the less they please. 

Our pleasures rather seem to spring 

From things too low that lie 
For fancy there to sweep her wing. 

Or hope to glance an eye ; 
These humbler gifts, of all on earth, 
Alone surprise us with their worth. 

Reader, while eager hope arrays 

In flowers the youthful year. 
Think too what storms and rainy days 

Will follow his career : 
Expect these storms and clouds to lower, — 
'T will brighten every sunny hour. 



A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 

A GENTLEMAN, just returned from a journey to Lon- 
don, was surrounded by his children, eager, after the first 
salutations were over, to hear the news ; and still more 



A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 217 

eager to see the contents of a small portmanteau, which 
were one by one carefully unfolded and displayed to 
view. After distributing amongst them a few small 
presents, the father took his seat again, saying that he 
must confess he had brought from town, for his own 
use, something far more curious and valuable than any 
of the little gifts they had received. It was, he said, 
too good to present to any of them ; but he would, if 
they pleased, first give them a brief description of it, 
and then perhaps they might be allowed to inspect it. 
The children were accordingly all attention, while the 
father thus proceeded : — 

" This small instrument displays the most perfect 
ingenuity of construction, and exquisite nicety and 
beauty of workmanship. From its extreme delicacy, 
it is so liable to injury that a sort of light curtain, 
adorned with a beautiful fringe, is always provided, and 
so placed as to fall in a moment on the approach of 
the slightest danger. Its external appearance is always 
more or less beautiful ; yet in this respect there is a 
great diversity in the different sorts. But the internal 
contrivance is the same in all of them, and is so ex- 
tremely curious, and its powers so truly astonishing, 
that no one who considers it can suppress his surprise 
and admiration. By a slight and momentary movement, 
which is easily effected by the person it belongs to, 
you can ascertain with considerable accuracy the size, 
color, shape, weight, and value of any article whatever. 
A person possessed of one is thus saved from the neces- 
sity of asking a thousand questions, and trying a variety 
of troublesome experiments, which would otherwise be 
necessary; and such a slow and laborious process 
would, after all, not succeed half so well as a single 
application of this admirable instrument." 

George. If they are such very useful things, I won- 
der that everybody that can at all afford it does not 
have one. 



2l8 A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT, 

Father. They are not so uncommon as you may 
suppose ; I myself happen to know several individuals 
who are possessed of one or two of them. 

Charles. How large is it, father, — could I hold it 
in my hand? 

Father. You might ; but I should be very sorry to 
trust mine with you. 

George. You will be obliged to take very great care 
of it, then? 

Father. Indeed I must ! I intend every night to 
enclose it within the small screen I mentioned ; and it 
must besides occasionally be washed in a certain color- 
less fluid kept for the purpose. But this is such a 
delicate operation, that persons, I find, are generally 
reluctant to perform it. But notwithstanding the ten- 
derness of this instrument, you will be surprised to 
hear that it may be darted to a great distance without 
the least injury, and without any danger of losing it. 

Charles. Indeed ! And how high can you dart it ? 

Father. I should be afraid of telling you to what 
a distance it will reach, lest you should think I am 
jesting with you. 

George. Higher than this house, I suppose ? 

Father. Much higher. 

Charles. Then how do you' get it again ? 

Father. It is easily cast down by a gentle move- 
ment, that does it no injury. 

George. But who can do this? 

Father. The person whose business it is to take 
care of it. 

Charles. Well, I cannot understand you at all; 
but do tell us, father, what it is chiefly used for. 

Father. Its uses are so various that I know not 
which to specify. It has been found very serviceable 
in deciphering old manuscripts; and, indeed, has its 
use in modern prints. It will assist us greatly in ac- 
quiring all kinds of knowledge ; and without it some of 



A CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 219 

the most sublime parts of creation would have been 
matters of mere conjecture. It must be confessed, 
however, that very much depends on a proper appli- 
cation of it; being, possessed by many persons who 
appear to have no adequate sense of its value, but who 
employ it only for the most low and common purposes, 
without even thinking, apparently, of the noble uses 
for which it is designed, or of the exquisite gratifications 
it is capable of affording. It is, indeed, in order to 
excite in your minds some higher sense of its value 
than you might otherwise have entertained, that I am 
giving you this previous description. 

George. Well then, tell us something more about 
it. 

Father. It is of a very penetrating quality; and 
can often discover secrets which could be detected by 
no other means. It must be owned, however, that it 
is equally prone to reveal them. 

Charles. What ! can it speak, then ? 

Father. It is sometimes said to do so, especially 
when it happens to meet with one of its own species. 

George. What color are they? 

Father. They vary considerably in this respect. 

George. What color is yours ? 

Father. I believe»of a darkish color ; but, to con- 
fess the truth, I never saw it in my life. 

Both. Never saw it in your life ! 

Father. No, nor do ^ I wish ; but I have seen a 
representation of it, which is so exact that my curios- 
ity is quite satisfied. 

George. But why don't you look at the thing it- 
self ? 

Father. I should be in great danger of losing it if 
I did. 

Charles. Then you could buy another. 

Father. Nay, I believe I could not prevail upon 
anybody to part with such a thing. 



2 20 THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 

George. Then how did you get this one ? 

Father. I am so fortunate as to be possessed of 
more than one : but how I got them I really cannot 
recollect. , 

Charles. Not recollect ! why, you said you 
brought them from London to-night ! 

Father. So I did ; I should be sorry if I had left 
them behind me. 

Charles. Tell, father, do tell us, the name of this 
curious instrument ! 

Father. It is called — an eye. 



THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 

It is related by Mr. Belzoni, in the interesting nar- 
rative of his late discoveries in Egypt, that having 
succeeded in clearing a passage to the entrance of an 
ancient temple which had been for ages buried in the 
sand, the first object that presented itself, upon enter- 
ing, was a toad of enormous size ; and, if we may 
credit the assertions of some naturalists respecting the 
extraordinary longevity of these creatures when in a 
state of solitary confinement, we may believe that it 
was well stricken in years. 

Whether the subjoined document was intrusted to 
our traveller by the venerable reptile as a present to the 
British Museum, or with the more mercantile view of 
getting it printed in London, in preference to Alexan- 
dria, on condition of receiving one per cent on the 
profits, after the sale of the five hundredth edition 
(provided the publisher should by that tirne be at all 
remunerated for his risk and trouble), we pretend not 
to say. Quite as much as can be vouched for is the 



THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 221 

manuscript's being faithfully rendered from the original 
hieroglyphic character. The dates are omitted. 

" Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked 
with one eye ; 
Half opened the other, but could not tell why ; 
Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer, 
Then drew all together and slept for a year. 
Awakened, felt chilly, — crept under a stone ; 
Was vastly contented with living alone. 
One toe became wedged in the stone like a peg ; 
Could not get it away, — had the cramp in my leg ; 
Began half to wish for a neighbor at hand 
To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand. 
Pulled harder, — then dozed, as I found 't was no 

use ; 
Awoke the next summer, and lo ! it was loose. 
Crawled forth from the stone, when completely awake ; 
Crept into a corner, and grinned at a snake. 
Retreated, and found that I needed repose ; 
Curled up my damp limbs and prepared for a doze. 
Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before, 
And did not awake for a century or more ; 
But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe. 
Methought it was light, and a fine summer's eve ; 
And I in some garden deliciously fed. 
In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry bed. 
There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with me^ 
And others that hopped, most enchanting to see. 
Here long I regaled with emotion extreme ; 
Awoke — disconcerted to find it a dream ; 
Grew pensive ; discovered that life is a load ; 
Began to be weary of being a toad. 
Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears." 
Here ends the account of the first thousand years. 



2 2 2 THE TOAD'S JO URNAL. 



MORAL. 

To find a moral where there 's none 
Is hard indeed, yet must be done ; 
Since only morals sound and sage 
May grace this consecrated page. 
Then give us leave to search a minute 
Perhaps for one that is not in it. 

How strange a waste of life appears 
This wondrous reptile's length of years ! 
Age after age afforded him 
To wink an eye, or move a limb, 
To doze and dream, — and then to think 
Of noting this with pen and ink ; 
Or hieroglyphic shapes to draw, 
More likely, with his hideous claw ! 
Sure, length of days might be bestowed 
On something better than a toad ! 
Had his existence been eternal, 
What better could have filled his journal? 

True, we reply ; our ancient friend 
Seems to have lived to Httle end. 
This must be granted ; nay, the elf 
Seems to suspect as much himself. 
Refuse not then to find a teacher 
In this extraordinary creature ; 
And learn at least, whoe'er you be, 
To moralize as well as he. 
It seems that life is all a void. 
On selfish thoughts alone employed ; 
That length of days is not a good, 
Unless their use be understood ; 
While if good deeds one year engage, 
That may be longer than an age. 
But if a year in trifles go. 
Perhaps you 'd spend a thousand so. 



ON VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN. 223 

Time cannot stay to make us. wise ; 
We must improve it as it flies. 
The work is ours, and they shall rue it 
Who think that time will stop to do it. 

And then, again, he lets us know 
That length of days is length of woe ; 
His long experience taught him this, — 
That life affords no solid bliss. 
Or if of bHss on earth you scheme, 
Soon you shall find it but a dream ; 
The visions fade, the slumbers break, 
And then you suffer wide awake. 
What is it but a vale of tears. 
Though we should live a thousand years ? 



ON VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN AND 
SUMMER-HOUSE AT OLNEY. 

Are these the trees ? Is this the place ? 
These roses, did they bloom for him ? 
Trod he these walks with thoughtful pace ? 
Massed he amid these borders trim ? 

Is this the bower ? — an humble shed 
Methinks it seems for such a guest ! 
Why rise not columns, dome bespread, 
By art's elaborate fingers drest ? 

Art waits on wealth, there let her roam, 
Her fabrics rear, her temples gild ; 
But Genius, when he seeks a home. 
Must send for Nature's self to build. 

This quiet garden's humble bound, 
This homely roof, this rustic fane, 



2 24 ON VISITING COWPER'S GARDEN 

With playful tendrils twining round, 
And woodbines peeping at the pane ; 

That tranquil tender sky of blue, 
Where clouds of golden radiance skim, 
Those ranging trees of varied hue, — 
These were the sights that solaced him. 

We stepped within. At once on each 
A feeling steals, so undefined, 
In vain we seek to give it speech, — 
'T is silent homage paid to Mind. 

They tell us here he thought and wrote ; 
On this low. seat — reclining thus : 
Ye garden breezes, as ye float. 
Why bear ye no such thoughts to us ? 

Perhaps the balmy air was fraught 
With breath of heaven. Or did he toil 
In precious mines of sparkHng thought 
Concealed beneath the curious soil? 

Did zephyrs bear on golden wings 
Rich treasures from the honeyed dew ? 
Or are there here celestial springs 
Of living waters, whence he drew ? 

And here he suffered ! This recess, 
Where even Nature failed to cheer. 
Has witnessed oft his deep distress. 
And precious drops have fallen here ! 

Here are no richly sculptured urns 
The consecrated dust to cover ; 
But Nature smiles and weeps, by turns, 
In memory of her fondest lover. 



THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND, 225 



THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND. 

To the Editor of the " Youth's Magazine " ; 

Sir, — In the hope that some of your correspon- 
dents may offer a few remarks on the subject on which 
I am about to address you, I have been induced to lay 
before you certain grievances under which I have long 
privately groaned. And as it is possible that others 
besides myself may have similar things to complain of, 
you may, by the insertion of my letter, be rendering a 
public service while conferring a private obligation. 

You must know that the house adjoining my father's 
is occupied by a family with whom we are on terms of 
intimacy. The eldest daughter especially, being a girl 
of my own age, I have always considered as a particu- 
lar friend ; and notwithstanding the complaints I am 
about to lay before you, I really feel a sincere regard 
for her ; although I will not deny that the warm affec- 
tion which I at first entertained is greatly damped by 
the continual vexations to which her conduct exposes 
me. In short, sir, she is one of those good sort 
of people whose misfortune it is to be very soon 
aifronted. 

Now it is needless to state how many occasions will 
perpetually occur, between such near neighbors, of 
'taking offence where there is a disposition to do so ; 
and that, notwithstanding the most sincere and diligent 
efforts on one part to avoid them. Being myself one 
of a large family, my time is very much occupied by 
domestic affairs ; besides, my attention to those pur- 
suits which are necessary to the completion of my 
education. Now it unfortunately happens that our 
neighbor, although in circumstances apparently similar 
to my own, has, or makes, a much larger portion of 

15 



226 THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND. 

leisure than I can command ; and hence arises one of 
the principal sources of uneasiness between us. She 
is so much " hurt/' as her phrase is, that I am not 
ready and willing at all times of the day ''to step in/' 
or to have a gossip over the garden wall. Now, 
although no one can enjoy the pleasures of society 
more than I do at proper seasons, yet I must say it is 
no enjoyment to me to have the regular and agreeable 
routine of my daily avocations hable to perpetual in- 
terruption. It is, however, on this account that my 
troublesome friend is perpetually reproaching me with 
being "2. bad neighbor," "unsociable," ''proud;" 
and with being indifferent to her society. 

I do assure you that I cannot pace up and down 
our garden walk with a book in my hand, but at the 
hazard of giving offence ; for if she should happen to 
be within sight, and if I should not happen to raise 
my head to nod to her, and say " Good morning," it 
will take her a week to pardon the neglect. Then, it 
would surprise you to hear the plausible manner she has 
of representing her grievances ; so that when her com- 
plaints have been repeated to me by some mutual 
friend, I have really begun to fancy myself quite in the 
wrong. And yet upon the coolest reflection I can- 
not accuse myself of misconduct in this matter. 

My friend is wont, with a very resigned, pathetic, 
and reasonable sort of look and manner, to make such 
complaints as the following : — 

" I do feel a little hurt, I must confess, — so much 
attention as I have shown to her, and so much regard 
as, I can truly say, I feel for her. Why, I have known 
her pass our parlor window twenty times in a day, 
when she knows I have been sitting there, without 
once giving herself the trouble to turn her head to nod 
to me ! Is not this a little strange, so intimate as we 
are?" 

" Certainly, it is/' says our mutual friend. 



THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND. 227 

" Well, and then she makes an excuse of being so 
vastly busy. For my part, I 've no notion of being too 
busy to speak to a friend, — have you? " 

^* Certainly not." 

" Well, one can never step in there but one seems 
to be interrupting them ; and it is quite a favor to get 
her to bring her work, and sit an hour with one in the 
morning. In short, I have done asking her. I don't 
deny that she is willing to come in and do one a kind- 
ness, when it is needed. But I Uke a friend to be a 
friend at all times ; and in my opinion there 's nothing 
so charming as a sociable disposition. For my own 
part, this is so much 7ny temper that, as I often say, I 
feel these slights the more ; and certainly at times I 
cannot help feeling a little hurt." 

In this style, as I have been repeatedly informed, 
she makes out a case against me. But as I never take 
any other notice of such charges than by doing all in 
my power to show her real friendship, we might go on 
tolerably, if it were not that sometimes, owing to some 
unforeseen occurrence or mistake, which it is impossible 
always to guard against, my friend takes more serious 
offence, — so much so, at times, that during many 
weeks she has refused to speak to me. I should be 
ashamed to call the attention of your readers to the 
detail of affairs so trifling, if it were not for the sake of 
illustrating my meaning. With this view, I will men- 
tion an instance or two of the kind. 

The last time that she appeared so much offended, 
it was in consequence of my having omitted to send 
her a formal invitation to spend the evening with me. 
Wishing to see several of my young friends, I had 
previously consulted with her about the day; and, 
having fully agreed together when it should be, I sat 
down to write the notes to my other friends, without 
its even occurring to me that she would expect any 
further notice. However, to my great surprise, she 



228 THE TROUBLESOME FRIEND, 

did not join our party ; and when I sent in to inquire 
the reason, she returned me only a cold and formal 
excuse. It was in vain that I endeavored to recollect 
anything I had done or left undone that could have 
vexed her; and it was not till weeks afterwards that 
she condescended to explain the cause of her dis- 
pleasure. Now really, if I had thought of writing her a 
note of invitation, I should have been in equal danger 
of giving offence ; for then, it is probable, she would 
have accused me of being too ceremonious with her. 

I should be more ready to suspect that the blame 
was on my part, if it were not that others of her ac- 
quaintance make the same complaints. We are both 
of us teachers in our Sunday School ; and there is no 
situation, as you may be aware, in which a quarrel- 
some or peevish dispositibn is more likely to show 
itself. You will not be surprised, therefore, when I 
say that my poor neighbor is continually taking um- 
brage with some of her fellow-teachers. When any 
fresh arrangement takes place in the classes, she sel- 
dom fails to complain that all the most stupid children 
are selected for her. Her attendance at the school is 
not the most regular ; yet no one can offer her the 
kindest remonstrance on this subject, or suggest the 
smallest improvement in her method of teaching, with- 
out the certainty of her being highly offended. If any 
new plans are projected without consulting her, that is 
sure to be considered as a personal aifront ; and- if, on 
the other hand, she is consulted, we are equally sure 
of her objecting to what is proposed. She is always 
complaining that she has so little to do with the man- 
agement of the school ; and indeed she is so constantly 
dissatisfied that her services are much less acceptable 
than they would otherwise be ; for there is, you know, 
trouble and difficulty and fatigue enough in a Sunday 
School, without having our embarrassments increased 
by disagreements among the teachers. 



TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN. 229 

Having been so long used to the peculiarity of my 
friend's temper, I was really scarcely aware of the 
degree of bondage and restraint which it imposed upon 
me, until lately when she was absent from home on a 
visit of some months. I cannot adequately describe 
to you how much I felt at Hberty as soon as she was 
gone. I could now walk in the garden without looking 
fifty ways to see if she was within sight. I could go 
out or come in, read or write, or take a walk with any 
other friend, — and all with a degree of freedom and 
comfort unknown heretofore. And the glow of sincere 
pleasure with which I should otherwise have welcomed 
her return was (I do not deny it) damped exceedingly 
by the recollection of the trouble it would inevitably 
bring upon me. 

Now, surely that must be a serious fault in a per- 
son's character which, in spite of many good qualities, 
renders her company burdensome and her absence a 
deliverance ; and if anything could be suggested that 
might successfully represent the weakness and unrea- 
sonableness of such a disposition, it would at once do a 
real service to all such troublesome friends, and inspire 
with the warmest gratitude all their troubled acquaint- 
ance. 

I am, sir, your obedient servant, 

Penelope. 



A LETTER TO WHOMSOEVER IT MAY 
CONCERN. 

Dear Reader, — Happening to glance my eye upon 
the title of a paper in the last number of the " Youth's 
Magazine," I was induced to put on my spectacles, 
and give it a reading. And although many of those 



230 A LETTER TO ' 

who contribute to its pages are doubtless better pre- 
pared in most respects than myself to reply to it, yet on 
one account I feel peculiarly qualified to accept the 
challenge there given : it is that I myself, for a con- 
siderable portion of my life was one of the society of 
" troublesome friends." 

I can assign more reasons than one for my having 
long withdrawn from that society ; but must frankly 
acknowledge that the primary cause was my having 
few friends left to be troublesome to. This circum- 
stance at once afforded me leisure for reflection and 
roused me to it. For, observing that my society was 
shunned, first by one, and then by another of my asso- 
ciates, I began to employ many solitary hours in en- 
deavoring to discover the cause ; and after various . 
unsuccessful attempts to trace it to the misconduct of 
others, I was at last compelled to suspect that, after 
all, the fault might be in myself. 

Without troubling you with the long course of exper- 
iment and observation by which I was led to this 
unpleasant conclusion, I shall content myself with 
stating it to be my settled conviction that an excessive 
sensibility to injury — a readiness to take offence on 
small occasions, a disposition to jealousy — proceeds 
from nothing so much as a tendency to overrate our 
own worth and consequence. Hence it is that we 
entertain unreasonable expectations of the attentions 
due to us from others ; and the inevitable disappoint- 
ment which ensues mortifies our vanity and self-love, 
and produces that fretful, complaining, or resentful 
temper which gives so much trouble to our neighbors 
and tenfold more uneasiness to ourselves. 

Persons whose misfortune it is to magnify their own 
consequence, instead of making a liberal allowance for 
similar infirmities in their neighbors, expect that every- 
body should regard them in the same disproportionate 
view; and are first astonished, and then hurt, when 



WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN, 231 

they discover how far this is from being the case. 
She who is ahvays thinking of herself imagines that 
others must be ahvays thinking of her; at least she 
thinks it ought to be so ; though of all persons, such a 
one is the least likely to excite a lively interest in those 
around her. 

Another cause of the disposition in question I dis- 
covered to be, in my own case, the want of a sufficient 
interest in the useful employments of life, which left 
me at leisure to indulge that idle and gossiping turn 
of mind from whence mischief of one sort or another 
is sure to arise. When, as a resource from the pain- 
fulness of my reflections, I began to engage more 
heartily in my pursuits, it was astonishing how much 
less inclination I felt to watch the motions and arraign 
the conduct of my neighbors. Being fully occupied 
myself, I often quite forgot to notice whether they paid 
me proper attentions or not; and a thousand little 
things passed unnoticed at which I should most cer- 
tainly have taken offence, had I been on the look out 
for it. I also acquired by this means a little more 
charity in judging of the conduct of my neighbors ; for 
it could not but occur to my mind that whereas, while 
I was busily engaged in my own occupations, I had 
little leisure to think of them, so they, for a reason equally 
good, might sometimes lose a lively recollection even 
of me. That very common admonition, to mind 07te's 
oivn business, is really an excellent one ; for while an 
energetic attention to one's own affairs effectually checks 
an impertinent and mischievous curiosity about the 
conduct of other people, it by no means prevents a 
benevolent concern for their welfare or activity in their 
service, when they may happen to require it. Thus I 
found that while I became less and less inchned to break 
off an interesting employment in order to watch whether 
one neighbor went by without calling, or whether another 
paid me some expected attention, I was yet much more 



232 A LETTER TO 

willing than heretofore to give up some portion of my 
time to them when I could do them any good by that 
means. 

There was another consideration which had great 
efficacy in curing me — if I am cured — of my trouble- 
some propensities ; and that was the utter unavailingness 
of my resentments. When I was affronted/ and deter- 
mined to show it, I soon discovered that nobody cared 
much whether I was pleased or angry. People in general 
seemed perfectly contented to wait till my anger was 
over. A few more good-tempered ones, who endeav- 
ored to explain and to conciliate, I could see smiled 
secretly at my infirmity; while the more ill-natured 
laughed at it without disguise. So that I found I was 
always the chief sufferer and the chief loser by my ill- 
humor. When from motives of pique I absented myself 
from any company, the circumstance, as I have had 
opportunities enough of discovering, excited no regret, 
but very often the reverse ; so that I began to be 
thoroughly tired of indulging resentments which pun- 
ished no one but myself. 

As it is common to pass from one extreme to another, 
so I am suspected by some of having now become too 
insensible to this sort of injury. Whether that be the 
case I will not determine ; but this I know, that if I err 
on this side it is the most peaceful and comfortable 
fault I ever fell into. In fact it is so difficult a thing to 
offend me now, that those — if there are any such — 
who would wish to do so, must I am sure give up the 
attempt in despair. I am far from being ignorant that 
I occasionally experience, Hke other people, little slights 
and neglects from the carelessness, selfishness, or ill- 
nature of my neighbors ; but as this rarely happens 
from those whom I love and esteem, I must confess 
that it gives the smallest possible disturbance to my 
tranquillity. If any one treats me with rudeness or 
neglect, I perceive that that person knows not how to 



WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN, 233 

behave ; and I feel the same sort of compassion and 
indulgence towards the party that one does on remark- 
ing any other species of awkwardness in ill-bred people. 

As to my happiness, that is so greatly independent 
of others — so much regulated by my own conduct and 
internal tranquillity — that it cannot be moved by such 
things. It is, indeed, since I have learned the happy 
art of looking within for entertainment and satisfaction, 
and depended on my own resources, that I have be- 
come so much less troublesome to others than formerly. 
And it is well for me that this change has taken place ; 
for as I am now growing old, and have nothing to re- 
commend me to the notice of any one, being neither 
rich, nor witty, nor entertaining, think, I beseech you, 
what an unhappy and forlorn creature I should be if 
my happiness still depended upon the flattering atten- 
tions of my neighbors. I assure you if that were the case, 
I should have little enough ! And while I am upon 
this subject I will take the liberty to say that it does 
appear to me that much of the dissatisfaction, fretful- 
ness, and uneasiness visible in persons in the decline of 
life, especially in those who are solitary, is owing to their 
not having independence of mind enough to make 
them indifferent to the neglect which is too often the lot 
of age. The most obscure and despised individual who 
thus rises above her circumstances and finds content 
within, is far more respectable, and enjoys a much more 
permanent and sterling species of happiness, than the 
most admired coquette, or the most richly bedizened 
dowager, who depends for the maintenance of her 
happiness, like the meanest mendicants, on the crumbs 
of admiration and respect that are thrown to her by the 
surrounding crowd. 

But I perceive that, like other old folks, I have 
wandered from my subject, and, forgetting that I am 
writing for the young, have been lecturing the old. 
However, I am well persuaded that the same disposi- 



234 GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 

tions that are necessary to respectability and happiness 
at one period of Ufe are equally so at another ; and she 
or he who would have a cheerful, peaceful, and respecta- 
ble old age, must learn in youth to build happiness on 
a true foundation. 

To return to the subject on which I set put, I will 
just say that, while I am so remarkably backward in 
taking offence, I hope I am equally reluctant to give it ; 
and I should be sincerely sorry if any remarks I have at 
present made should have such an effect on any of my 
readers. If, however, I may have unintentionally hurt 
any. one, I humbly hope that they will prove that my 
advice has not been quite lost upon them, by a generous 
act of forgiveness towards the unknown offender, and 
that in future, as often as occasion may require, the 
same indulgence may be extended towards others. 
For truly, when one comes impartially to consider the 
degrees of uneasiness that the temper of which we 
have been speaking occasions, I doubt if one should 
find a very great deal to choose between a troublesome 
friend and a troublesome enemy. 

I am, my dear reader, your humble servant, 

Dorothy. 



! GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 

There is a prevailing desire in the minds of many 
young people to be freed from the restraints of authority, 
— an impatience for that period to arrive when they 
shall be at liberty to direct their own actions. It is not, 
perhaps, very uncommon for them to imagine that they 
should be more willing even to do right, — that it would 
be easier, and far more agreeable, — if it were no longer 
a matter of constraint, but of choice. 



GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 235 

To any who may have entertained such ideas, I 
would propose a method by which they may akeady 
ascertain their powers of self-government, and direct 
them to a sphere of action which, whatever their pre- 
sent circumstances may be, is subject to no external 
control ; where parents, tutors, friends, have no domi- 
nion ; where they are already emancipated from every 
outward restraint. Here, then, they may try their 
strength and prove their skill ; and if they fail here, it 
is but reasonable to conclude that they would be, at 
least, equally unsuccessful if intrusted with the direction 
of their own conduct. 

But in what way, it may be asked, are persons whose 
time, pursuits, actions — whose very recreations — are 
in a measure regulated by others, at liberty to com- 
mand themselves ? There are, indeed, several ways in 
which this question might be profitably answered ; but 
we shall at present confine ourselves to one, and reply. 
Thought is free. Here is a boundless field, over 
which the youngest and most strictly guarded possesses 
unlimited dominion. Here the eye of the most watch- 
ful friend cannot penetrate. At the very moment that 
a child is gratifying a parent's feehngs by some act of 
obedience, the thoughts may be so employed as would 
incur his severest displeasure. There is but One whose 
eye discerns '' the thoughts and intents of the heart ; " 
and a lively recollection of that eye being ever present, 
beholding and recording all that passes within, would 
indeed supersede every other consideration. 

Here then let the proud spirit, impatient of control 
and confident of his strength to resist temptation and 
avoid danger, begin to exercise his self-command. 
And here let the modest and ingenuous, who cheerfully 
submit to wholesome restraint and parental guidance, 
give double diligence in guarding and regulating that 
to which parental authority cannot extend. 

All self-government begins here. He who cannot 



236 GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 

command his thoughts, must not hope to control his 
actions. The smallest attention to our own minds 
must convince us that the thoughts require restraint. 
If left to pursue their own course, they will assuredly 
take a wrong one. Three different descriptions of 
thought might be mentioned, closely indeed connected 
with each other, but which generally, perhaps, occur in 
the following order : idle thoughts, vain thoughts, and 
wicked thoughts. 

Idle thoughts are those which ramble wantonly 
about the mind, ranging from one object to another, 
just as they will, without any effort being made to 
divert them into a useful channel. It might afford a 
profitable illustration of our meaning, if the train of 
thought passing through the mind of a young lady, for 
instance, while sitting for an hour alone at her work- 
table, could be taken down as it occurs. Perhaps she 
would herself be startled to peruse the motley record. 
Or, should she be disposed to plead in her excuse that 
it was rather silly than sinful, let her remember that 
" the thought of foolishness is sin." It is not said the 
thought of wickedness^ but the thought of foolishness. 
And it is so, because it wastes time and talents which 
might be profitably employed, and for which we must 
render an account. It is not sufficient that the hands 
are occupied, — the mind may be idle whilst they are 
busy; and how much mischief and misery may be 
traced to indolence of mind ! Thought is the chief 
prerogative of our being, the great means of ennobling 
and reforming it ; it makes the grand distinction be- 
tween the man and the brute. And yet, would it be 
paying too high a compliment to the capacities of the 
linnet or the lapdog (who we may suppose to be the 
aforesaid young lady's companions at her work-table), 
to presume that the train of ideas or sensations passing 
through their brains at the same time would be at 
least as well worthy of note as those of their mistress ? 



GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 237 

I would gladly amuse my readers with the alternate 
cogitations of the lapdog, the linnet, and the lady ; but 
being unwilling to hazard a conjecture with regard to 
the two former, I leave them to furnish those of the 
latter for themselves. If '' Satan finds some mischief 
still for idle hands to do," it is no less true of idle 
thoughts. They are the first means he employs to 
ensnare us. Of them we are not much afraid ; and 
therefore are easily led on to the next step, which is 
short and easy indeed. 

By vain thoughts, we may understand those wilful 
excursions of the imagination, those airy visions of 
future happiness (as improbable as they are indeed 
undesirable), which, it is to be feared, are by many 
not only admitted but encouraged. If any young 
persons should yield to this kind of mental indulgence, 
under the idea of its being a harmless amusement, it 
can only be for want of observation of their own minds, 
or for want of sufiicient experience of its consequences. 
Its effects on the mind are much the same as those 
of intemperance on the body, — enfeebling its powers, 
rendering every present occupation insipid, every duty 
dry, and creating a distaste for all mental improve- 
ment ; at the same time that it cherishes the love of 
self, and blunts every benevolent and generous senti- 
ment. Nor is it too much to say, that an habitual 
indulgence of these visionary pleasures ^ is absolutely 
incompatible with rehgious improvement. The mind, 
whose favorite employment is forming plans and wishes 
for possessing the pleasures, honors, riches, vanities 
of this world, cannot be seeking, ''first, the kingdom 
of God;" cannot be ^'hungering and thirsting after 
righteousness ; " cannot have " fixed its affections on 
things above." Well, then, might David exclaim, 
" I hate vam thoughts, but thy law do I love." He 
knew that to love both was impossible, for he sets 
them in direct opposition to each other. 



238 GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 

It is not necessary to describe, and we hope not 
needful to warn our readers against, the last mentioned 
kind. Indeed, if the two former be carefully guarded 
against, and dismissed from the mind as soon as they 
enter, there will be little danger that wicked thoughts 
should gain admission. But let none hope to escape 
even from these, if license be given to the others. 
The distance and difference between vain and 
wicked thoughts, is much less than may be imag- 
ined ; it is but another step, a step soon and easily and 
often unconsciously taken. Who, then, will dispute 
that "the thought of foolishness is sin?'' Who but 
has need to watch and pray that they enter not into 
this temptation ! 

If a habit of indulging vain and sinful thoughts be 
so injurious to the moral and intellectual powers, how 
healthful, how desirable is a well-regulated mind, which 
has acquired such a command over it^self as to be able 
to call off the thoughts instantly from unprofitable 
wanderings, and fix them on useful and important 
subjects ! Youth is the time for forming this habit. 
If neglected then, it will in after life be by painful 
laborious efforts only that the mind can be brought to 
profitable reflection and meditation ; from which it 
will be ever Hable to be diverted by every trifle that 
presents itself to the senses. 

All mental ^superiority originates in habits of thhik- 
ing, A child indeed, like a machine, may be made to 
perform certain functions by external means ; but it is 
only when he begins to think that he rises to the 
dignity of a rational being. Are we at a loss for sub- 
jects of improving and interesting thought? Oh, look 
around ; regard the heavens above and the earth 
beneath ! The wonders and beauties of nature are of 
themselves inexhaustible sources of delightful contem- 
plation. That must be a low, frivolous mind, in which 
a glance at the starry heavens excites no interest, no 



GOVERNMENT OF THE THOUGHTS. 239 

curiosity, no admiration, no reverence for the great 
Creator. Many of our employments (and this remark 
especially applies to female employments) are happily 
of such a nature as to leave the mind at liberty. Let 
no one imagine that she is not responsible for the 
manner in which that liberty is used. While the use- 
ful needle is performing its humble functions, what a 
noble privilege it is, that the mind may be engaged in 
the grandest pursuits that can occupy an intelligent 
being ! 

Why is it that so many who acknowledge generally 
the supreme importance of religion, yet from year to 
year neglect that great salvation? It is for want of 
thought. Idle and vain thoughts are the ^Sveeds 
which spring up and choke " every good impression, 
and prevent all serious reflection. Oh, we should be 
ashamed to mention the trifles that, it is to be feared, 
occupy hours and years of eager, anxious thought, and 
cause such subjects as death, heaven, and eternity, to 
appear dull, insipid, and unimportant ! Let our young 
readers inquire for themselves to what themes their 
thoughts most gladly and naturally recur. And happy, 
happy they who after such an investigation can sin- 
cerely exclaim, " Oh, how love I Thy law ; it is my 
meditation all the day ! " 

Let none be discouraged from attempting to ac- 
quire the right regulation of their thoughts by the diffi- 
culties they may have to encounter. Habit will render 
that easy and delightful which at first appears dry and 
difficult. The mind will gradually become enlarged 
and ennobled ; will feel disgusted at the trifles which 
used to satisfy it, and aspire to pursuits and pleasures 
of the highest order. To be prepared for the great 
change — meetened for a world of intellectual and 
spiritual enjoyment — will then appear to us the grand 
concern of life, the "one thing needful." Then shall 
we be able to say with the Psalmist, " I thought on my 
ways, and turned my feet unto Thy testimonies.'* 



240 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 



FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 

" Be clothed with humility," and have " the ornament of a 
meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great 
price.'* 

This is the most graceful, becoming, and at the 
same time novel costume that has ever solicited pub- 
lic patronage. The mantle is of the most exquisite 
hue and delicate texture, tastefully decorated with the 
above-mentioned costly brilliants, and will be found to 
unite every advantage of utility and elegance. This 
dress is suitable to all seasons, and is considered 
equally becoming to the young and the old. it pos- 
sesses extraordinary durability, is less liable to take a soil 
than any other material, and retains its freshness and 
novelty to the last. It falls over the person in the 
most graceful folds, and is so adjusted as to veil every 
blemish and set off the least favorable figure to the 
best possible advantage. The color usually preferred 
for this costume is invisible green; which casts the 
most delicate shade upon the whole form, and produces 
an effect indescribably agreeable and prepossessing. 
Nothing can be more tastefully imagined than the 
ornament with which this mantle is finished ; and 
although this jewel is pronounced by the best judges 
to be of immense value, it may be obtained upon very 
reasonable terms. It is so delicate in its hue, and so 
chaste and simple in its workmanship, that it has been 
mistaken by unskilful observers for an ordinary pebble ; 
but connoisseurs instantly recognize it, and allow it to 
be "more precious than rubies.'^ Notwithstanding 
the many recommendations it possesses, this dress has 
never become common, although universally approved. 
It was once worn as a royal robe, and has ever 



FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 24 1 

since been held in high estimation and general use 
amongst the subjects of the great Prince who first intro- 
duced it. 

The figurative language of the Bible will always 
allow of the most plain and practical interpretation. 
When our Lord, for instance, relates the parable of the 
merchantman seeking goodly pearls, who sold all that 
he had to obtain one of great price, we are not to 
regard it as an entertaining fable. Its meaning is plain- 
ly this, — that eternal life is of such incalculable value 
that it is infinitely worth while to part with everything 
which must be sacrificed to its attainment. The mer- 
chant sold his all to gain one pearl ; for by this 
means he would abundantly enrich himself. He acted 
wisely, therefore ; for ^' the children of this world are, 
in their generation, wiser than the children of light.'* 
In like manner, whatever we may resign of present 
pleasure or advantage with a view to our eternal wel- 
fare, will prove so unspeakably advantageous in the 
end that nothing but the grossest blindness and inat- 
tention to our own interests could make us unwilling 
to do so. 

The language of the apostle Peter, quoted above, is 
no less plain and practical in its import. The apparel 
he recommends is no fancy dress which we are not 
really expected to wear. On the contrary, we may — 
we must^ if we are Christians — be thus clothed with 
humility, and have this ornament of a meek and quiet 
spirit. Some of our young readers would probably 
hear with considerable interest that the most becoming 
dress and the most brilliant jewels ever worn were 
offered for their acceptance. Now, this is truly the 
case. Clothed with humility and adorned with a 
meek and quiet spirit, they would be more richly 
attired than in the most costly array. Who then will 
turn away disappointed from such a gift, and think 

16 



242 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER, 

some sparkling bauble more desirable ? Oh, remem- 
ber in whose sight this ornament is of " great price ! " 
It is well to pause and reflect closely upon such an 
assertion. Many such passages of Scripture are, it 
is to be feared, passed over with slight attention, 
so that their force and beauty are little perceived. 
Many, perhaps, who spend some precious hours every 
day in reflection upon their outward decorations have 
never stopped to meditate upon this striking declara- 
tion, — in the sight of God of g7'eat price. He who 
forms the most accurate and impartial estimate of the 
true and comparative value of all things. He who 
formed and gave their lustre to those shining gems we 
so greatly admire, is fully aware of whatever beauty 
and value they possess. Yet He says '\7iot with gold, 
and pearls, and costly array," but "with the ornament 
of a meek and quiet spirit." 

It is not our present intention to enter upon that 
part of the subject to wdiich the words just quoted 
would afford so suitable a text ; nor to inquire how far 
the expression " not with gold and pearls " &c., may 
be supposed to imply a direct prohibition of a showy 
style of attire. That they condemn that excessive 
attention paid to appearance which so greatly prevails 
among professing Christians cannot, however, be 
doubted. But our present purpose is to recommend 
" that inward adorning of the mind," which is here 
described. Indeed, there is little fear that they who 
eminently shine with these internal graces will be 
prone to excess in external decoration. HumiHty, 
whose chief characteristic it is to be contented to pass 
without attracting observation, will surely seldom be 
found excessively arrayed in those ornaments which 
expressly invite it. There may be some, however, 
who, though not destitute of this Christian grace, yet 
conform too much to the customs of those around 
them, merely from the want of a due consideration of 
the subject. 



FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 243 

" Be ye clothed with humiUty." There is grace in 
the very word ; an attraction which they who feel not 
must be as destitute of true taste as of right principle. 
There is no age to which it does not belong ; but to 
the young, how eminently becoming ! HumiHty is 
the very foundation of Christianity. We must be 
abased, before we can be exalted ; and our highest 
exaltation must, at last, consist in the depth of our 
humiliation. He who is the '• High and lofty One 
that inhabiteth eternity," exhibited, during the whole 
period of his abode on earth, a perfect pattern of this 
virtue. He not only " was found in fashion as a man," 
but " took upon Him the form of a servant ; " and let 
us remember that He set us this example in order 
"that we might follow His steps." When we are 
conscious of the swelHngs of pride, or the risings of 
vanity, let us think of the Lord Jesus Christ, — en- 
deavor to realize His appearance. His manner, and to 
ascertain what conduct or feelings He would display or 
recommend on the present occasion. Above all, let 
us remember, — however we may imagine the secret 
workings of our vain hearts to be concealed from 
those around us (though even this is rarely the case), 
— that His eye beholds them all, and with what sen- 
timents we are fully informed. " The Lord resisteth 
the proud ; " '^ the proud He knoweth afar off." 

Be ye clothed with humility : there is a peculiar 
beauty in this figure. It is to cover us completely, 
like a garment, and without it we must never appear. 
This simple attire need fear no injury. A person 
w^alking the streets in dehcate and costly clothing is 
perpetually in danger of its being soiled and torn ; 
while another in plain garments may go about without 
fear of inconvenience from the common accidents to 
which he is exposed. So a vain, showy mind is 
continually exposed to pain and mortification, from 
which one of a humble unassuming temper is per- 



244 FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER. 

fectly secure. The freedom, ease, and tranquillity he 
enjoys can, indeed, scarcely be conceived of by those 
of an opposite spirit. And the garments of humiHty 
are armor as well as clothing. They form an invul- 
nerable covering, which malice itself cannot penetrate. 

*' He that is down need fear no fall ; 
He that is low no pride. 
He that is humble ever shall 
Have God to be his guide." 

Bunyan's shepherd boy sang sweetly when he sang 
thus. 

And what is this ornament on which we ought to 
set so high a value ? A meek and quiet spirit. Oh, 
what a different world ours would be, if this heavenly 
jewelry were to become fashionable ! But alas, how 
rarely do we see it worn ! We hear much outcry of 
wrong, insult, ingratitude ! The peace of every pri- 
vate circle is interrupted, more or less, by some petty 
contention, — and here is a simple means which would 
heal every breach, calm every storm, allay every irri- 
tation. There is a certain temper called spirit in 
some young people, which is altogether opposed to 
meekness and quietness. The very terms, indeed, 
would probably excite in them a smile of contempt. 
But this would only prove them to be unacquainted 
with the nature of true dignity and real manliness. 
That the most perfect dignity of character and man- 
ner is consistent with these virtues was eminently 
manifested in Him who was, beyond all others, " meek 
and lowly in heart." That spirit which is by some so 
greatly admired, would upon investigation be found 
to be made up of the most mean and pitiful qualities, 
and to proceed from a contemptible species of vanity. 
But can it be necessary to insist on the excellence of 
those tempers which the Bible itself recommends? 
Can that be mean, unmanly, or of small value, which 
in the sight of God is of great price ! 



THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY, 245 

Every word of God is true. It is therefore true, 
however reluctantly we may be disposed to admit it, 
that even a child who subdues a rising fit of passion, 
or submits patiently to some little grievance that he 
felt disposed to resist, is " greater than he that taketh 
a city." 

Do we need other inducements to cultivate this tem- 
per ? Let us make the trial for one day ; let us be 
peaceable, meek, forbearing, submissive ; determining 
not to be provoked by provocation ; and remark if that 
day will not be more productive of happiness to our- 
selves, as well as to all around us, than another in 
which rights have been maintained, privileges asserted, 
insults returned, and wrongs (ever so successfully) re- 
venged. This, indeed, must be the case ; because 
holiness and happiness, our duty and our interest, are 
inseparably connected. 

Let our young readers, then, while they wisely repress 
that inordinate attention to external decoration which 
so generally prevails, be ambitious to \^dn and wear this 
choice array, these precious ornaments. Let them 
" learn of Him who was meek and lowly in heart, and 
they shall find " peace in their consciences, '' and rest to 
their souls." 



THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 

TiL\T " what man has done man may do " is a most 
stimulating and encouraging truth. It is this considera- 
tion chiefly that renders the lives of individuals who 
have distinguished themselves in their day and genera- 
tion so interesting to their fellow- creatures ; and it is a 
remark which should be borne in mind, whether we are 
studying the actions of great good men or of clever bad 



246 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 

men. In the former case, we should inquire whether 
we are not possessed of the same quahties, powers, and 
opportunities — generally speaking — with which they 
were favored ; and in the latter, that we partake of the 
same depraved nature, and are liable to the same tempta- 
tions that led them astray. It is not the history of other 
beings, — of those above or below us in the scale of 
intelligence ; it is neither of angels nor of brutes, but of 
men like ourselves that we read. 

It is a common remark, that biography is one of the 
most useful studies to which we can apply ; but we 
must remember that its usefulness to us entirely depends 
upon our right application of it. It is idle, indeed, to 
take up a book of any kind, merely with a view to 
entertainment : we hope our readers are all of them, by 
this time, above so childish a practice ; but it is possi- 
ble to read with a general desire to derive benefit, and 
yet without that close, personal application of it to our- 
selves which alone is likely to do us good. We would 
therefore recommend, especially to the reader of biog- 
raphy, to keep one grand object in view, and to make 
this close inquiry whenever such a volume is opened : 
In what respects is this appHcable to me? How can 
I make it subservient to my own improvement? 
We shall endeavor to offer some suggestions that may 
assist the reader in this inquiry. 

Suppose that a young person in the quiet and hum- 
ble walks of life should meet with the annals of some 
great warrior or statesman. He would probably say, 
" This is nothing to me, except as mere amusement. 
I have no ambition, at least I have no talents or oppor- 
tunities to distinguish myself in public life ; I am quite 
contented with my humble lot ; I seek not great things 
for myself." Herein, indeed, he would show his wis- 
dom ; and yet it might not be true that such a history 
was nothing to him. Whatever is in itself excellent is 
worthy of our attention and more or less of our imi- 



THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY, 247 

tation, however widely our circumstances may differ. 
Great talents and splendid achievements are neces- 
sarily confined to a few ; and as we may be virtuous 
and happy without them, this is not to be regretted. 
But it is the duty and interest of every individual to 
aim at excellence in his own sphere, however humble ; 
and w^hile it may be the farthest from our wishes or our 
duty to engage in public services, it may still be highly 
to our advantage to trace the steps and to mark the 
progress by which great men have arrived at eminence. 
Many of the very same qualities are requisite to make 
a good tradesman or skilful mechanic, which are 
needed to form a great statesfnan or general. 

We ^shali probably find that such a man was early 
distinguished from the frivolous or dissolute around 
him by devotedness to his object ; that he made it his 
study, his pleasure, — not merely engaging in it as a 
matter of course, or of necessity. We shall find that he 
was not discouraged by difficulties, but rather stimu- 
lated by them to more vigorous efforts ; that he never 
consulted his own ease or gratification, when they stood 
in the way of his grand design ; that he was character- 
ized by a disregard to trifles of all sorts, and by a steady 
aim at the most important ends. Now as these, among 
other good qualities, insured to him success and distinc- 
tion, so we may be assured that the same causes will 
produce the same effects, in whatever situations they are 
applied. Thus far a little apprentice-boy may learn of 
Peter the Great ; and become, by and by, as distinguished 
in his trade as the Czar was in his empire. 

When we read the lives of distinguished persons, we 
are generally struck with the lamentable mixture of mean 
qualities and bad actions which sullied the glory of their 
highest achievements. In the whole history of man- 
kind there are but a very few exceptions to this remark. 
From which we may learn not to envy that eminence of 
rank or talent which so peculiarly exposes to temptation. 



248 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY, 

At the same time it should make us watchful of our- 
selves j since, if men thus eminently gifted, and pos- 
sessed of such gigantic powers, had not wisdom suffi- 
cient to govern their passions, nor strength to resist 
temptation, what need must there be for us to guard 
against the danger ! For although it frequently appears 
that clever men are wicked men, it by no means follows 
that to be wicked one must needs be clever ; on the 
contrary, it is often seen that persons of the weakest 
intellect sink into the lowest degrees of vice. 

From the lives of distinguished bad men we may see 
the small value, in themselves, of those shining quali- 
ties which dazzle mankind. What is genius without 
virtue ? It is but a splendid curse ; proving still more 
baneful to the individual himself than to those within 
the sphere of his influence. But in tracing the career 
of men distinguished alike by their talents and their 
vices, it is especially profitable to observe the gradual 
steps by which they arrived at the height or rather the 
depth of their notoriety. There was a time when Nero 
appeared amiable and humane. Let us not, therefore, 
conclude that we shall never be guilty of a crime 
because we now shrink from the thought of it; but 
rather, if we find that we have not resolution to resist 
the small temptations of the present moment, let us 
remember that we are in the high road to vice, 
although as yet but at its commencement. It is pre- 
sumption and ignorance of ourselves, to imagine that 
the power of resistance will increase with the strength 
of temptation. By such self-deception some once 
promising characters have become the tyrants and 
scourges of society. From their example we should 
learn, " when we think we stand, to take heed lest we 
fall" 

But if so much improvement may be derived from 
the history of bad men, and of others who have emi- 
nently possessed '' the wisdom of this world," how 



THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 249 

much more profitable must it be to study the lives of 
those who became "wise unto salvation;" who were 
good and great in the truest sense of the words ? Our 
libraries are richly furnished with such profitable rec- 
ords ; and the young reader is amply supplied with 
animating accounts of those of his own age who had 
the courage to "come out and be separate " from a 
vain world. But are we not too apt to read the lives 
of eminent Christians with the same feeling of distance 
as those of heroes and philosophers ? — as though the 
higher attainments of holiness were as much beyond 
our reach as the gifts of genius. This is a common 
but lamentable mistake, proceeding not from humility 
but indolence. Although perseverance and industry 
will in a great degree supply the want of great abilities, 
yet genius, it must be acknowledged, is so far a gift of 
nature that it cannot be acquired by our own endeav- 
ors ; but this is not the case with regard to " the 
wisdom which is from above." Hence Christian biog- 
raphy is all encouragement ; and it is only sinful sloth 
which tempts us to say, " I can never hope to make 
such attainments in religion as others." Here ambi- 
tion is sanctified ; and here to be contented with medi- 
ocrity is dangerous indeed. By what means does it 
appear that these " burning and shining lights " arrived 
at such eminence in their profession? Were they not 
such as are in the power of every reader, however 
humble in station, mean in intellect, or young in years ? 
Is it not invariably by watchfulness and diligence, by 
self-denial, fer\^ent prayer, and giving up the world, — in 
other words, by being deeply in earnest in religion, — 
that these " best gifts " are attained? Let us not then 
merely envy the attainments of those we read of, but 
with a holy ambition resolve to emulate their graces. 
There is no obstacle in the way but our own unwilling- 
ness. It is true, that, like every other good, this 
degree of growth in grace must be given from above ; 



250 THE USE OF BIOGRAPHY. 

but this surely is not a hindrance, but the highest 
possible advantage. " He giveth more grace " to 
those who desire more ; and they who ask '' will 
assuredly receive." To young readers the encourage- 
ments and inducements are especially great ; because 
their course is but beginning, and it is yet for them to 
determine in what way to direct it. Now they may 
either become like stars of the first magnitude, or 
sink to the level of those common, careless, doubtful 
characters, who live in worldliness and die without 
comfort. 

Closely connected with this subject is that depart- 
ment of religious reading which has proved very edify- 
ing to many, and with which our young readers are 
frequently presented ; we refer to obituaries. In read- 
ing of the lives of individuals, we observe various 
situations wherein they are placed, in which it is highly 
improbable we shall ever follow them. But in accounts 
of the deaths oi OMx fellow- creatures, we are intimately 
interested ; since it is a scene through which we must 
certainly ourselves pass, — and to read such records 
without a deep, thoughtful impression of that fact is 
folly indeed. We too must die ; and as we know not 
how soon, it behooves us immediately to inquire what 
reason there is to suppose that we should enjoy the 
same tranquillity and hope on a dying pillow as we 
frequently read of. The agonizing doubts of a death- 
bed repentance call loudly to those yet in health 
to ^'remember their Creator before those evil days 
come ; " while the cheerful hope of those whose youthful 
and healthful days were devoted to Him, — whom sick- 
ness and death found " watching, " — should stimulate 
us to '' be also ready." Especially, as the many early 
deaths that are continually recorded prove that we know 
not at what hour the angel of death may come : with 
some it is "at cock-crowing and in the morning." 



THE WISE MAN. 251 



THE WISE MAN. 



Frederic and Philip, with their sisters Julia and 
Kate, were amusing themselves together one evening 
while their father and mother were engaged in conver- 
sation. The children paid no attention to what passed, 
till Philip (who was very lively and inquisitive) hap- 
pened to hear his father say of some person he was 
speaking of, that he might be truly called a wise ma7i ! 
These last words, which were uttered emphatically, 
struck his attention. 

"A wise man ! " said he to his brother and sisters ; 
"who is that, I wonder, that papa can be talking 
- about? " '' Nobody that we know, you may be sure,'* 
replied Kate. 

" No, but papa knows him, and I should like to 
know him very much," said Philip ; and he began to 
conjecture what kind of a person this wise man must 
be. He thought of the seven wise men of Greece ; 
but he did not imagine there were any of that sort in 
England. As soon as there was a pause in the conver- 
sation, he asked his papa what this wise man's name 
was, and where he lived. 

''He lives," replied his father, ''not very far off; 
and his name is Johnson." 

" Johnson ! Oh, some relation to Dr. Johnson, no 
doubt," said Frederic. 

"That is more than I know," answered his father; 
"but if you are so curious to see a wise man, I will 
promise to take you all to call upon him to-morrow 
morning." 

Philip and the rest thanked their papa for this prom 
ise ; and very much pleased were they at the thought 
of it. 



252 THE WISE MAN. 

The next morning the children talked much of their 
expected visit ; and wondered they did not hear their 
father give orders for the chaise. 

'' How many miles off is it, papa?" said Philip. 

" Not half a mile," said his father. 

Philip. Not half a mile ! Well, now, I had no 
idea that there was what one could call a wise man 
living anywhere hereabouts. 

Frederic. No more had I. 

Julia. I think I know where he lives. Don't you 
remember that old-fashioned looking house, just off 
the common, with tall narrow windows, and a high 
wall all around it, where they say a very old gentleman 
lives all alone? That is the place, I dare say. 

Philip. I wonder whether he wears a long beard ! 

Kate. No, no ; most likely nothing but a huge 
wig. 

Julia. A wig ! no such thing ! depend upon it he 
has his own white locks, waving about his temples. 

Philip. We shall find him up to his elbows in old 
dusty books, I '11 engage. 

Frederic. Or perhaps with globes and glasses, 
and all sorts of apparatus. 

Philip. He will not be very well pleased, I am 
afraid, to be interrupted in his studies by us; 

Julia. For my part, I shall take care not to speak 
one word while we are in the room. 

Kate. And so shall I. 

Philip. I hope he will not ask us any questions 1 

Frederic. Oh, as to that, you may depend upon 
it he will not notice one of us ; perhaps not so much 
as know we are there. 

Kate. I am afraid I shall laugh. 

Philip. Laugh ! if you do though, we shall get 
turned out, every one of us, depend upon it. 

On these remarks their papa made no comment; 
he only smiled occasionally, and at length bade them 



THE WISE MAN, 255- 

make ready to accompany him on his visit to the wise 
man. When they set off, Julia was much surprised 
that he passed the turning leading to the common, 
and kept straight on towards the town. " Now I have 
no idea who in the world it can be," said she. When 
they entered the town, they looked at most of the 
principal houses as they passed, expecting to stop 
every instant. " Doctor Somebody^'' said Philip, en- 
deavoring to read the name on a brass plate ; " this is 
it, I dare say." But no ; his father passed on, and 
soon turned down a narrow street, where the dweUings 
were of a humbler description ; and knocked at the 
door of a mean-looking house. A plain, middle-aged 
man opened it, and courteously invited them to enter. 
" Papa has to call here first, for something," whispered 
the children to each other. He ushered them into a 
small parlor, where his wife was sitting at needle-work ; 
while three girls, her daughters, were seated on a form 
before her, reading their lessons. The room was in 
perfect order ; and the mother and her children were 
neatly dressed. The only decorations of the apart- 
ment were two or three maps ; and a few portraits of 
some of the old divines, and other pious ministers, on 
the wall. 

The young folks listened to the conversation which 
their father entered into \vith these persons ; and they 
quickly perceived (for these children were well taught, 
and could discriminate) that they conversed sensibly ; 
and that their father, although much their superior in 
education, regarded them with respect. After a few 
minutes thus spent, their papa told the master of the 
house that he would not detain him any longer from 
his employment ; but that he had taken the liberty 
of bringing his children with him, in the hope that 
he would allow them to look on for a little time while 
he was at work. It would be, he said, both amusing 
and instructive to them, as they had never had an 



254 THE WISE MAN, 

opportunity of seeing that operation before. To 
this request he most obligingly acceded ; and, with a 
look of great good nature at the young folks, immedi- 
ately conducted them to the uppermost room in the 
house, in which he carried on his business. It was 
a light, airy apartment; and there was a pleasant 
view of the adjacent country from its long low window. 
The children were much interested in watching the 
process, and in listening to the intelligent explanation 
he gave them of his trade, for he was a very ingenious 
mechanic, and he told them many things which they 
had never heard before. 

When their curiosity was a little satisfied, they be- 
gan to look around the room, where their attention 
was attracted to a few shelves, containing his small 
library. Upon examining the titles of the books, they 
found that several of them treated of subjects more or 
less connected with his own line of business. There 
were, however, a few of a more general nature, and 
such as the children were surprised to see in the pos- 
session of so plain a man. But the greater part of the 
collection were well-chosen books of divinity, with a 
Bible, which had the appearance of being well read. 
They now again listened to the stranger's discourse 
with their father ; and were struck with the mild and 
pleasing expression of his countenance, when he was 
telling him how happily his hours passed in that soli- 
tary chamber. 

" I often think, sir," said he, " that I cannot be suffi- 
ciently thankful that my calling is of a nature that 
allows me so much retirement and opportunity for 
thinking ; so that while I am laboring for the meat that 
perishes, I am also able to seek after that which will 
endure to everlasting life. Indeed, sir," continued he, 
*^ I am a happy man. The cheerful hope of another 
life is surely enough to make a man unspeakably 
happy. In addition to this, God is pleased to give me 



THE WISE MAN. 255 

many comforts to render this life pleasant to me. I 
have a wife like-minded with myself: and when my 
working hours are over, I want no other recreation 
than that of going down to her and our dear children, 
whom it is our delight to train up, as far as we are 
able, to wisdom and virtue. I have great pleasure in 
reading to her and to them such books as we possess ; 
and thus we increase our little stock of knowledge, as 
opportunity allows. But, sir, though I mention these 
things, m.y happiness, I trust, does not depend upon 
them ; but is fixed upon that good hope which sweet- 
ens every comfort, and softens every trial." 

The father and his children were pleased with their 
visit; which for some time after they took leave 
formed the subject of their conversation ; until Philip, 
suddenly perceiving that they were on their return 
home, exclaimed, '^But are not we going to see the 
wise man? " 

" My dear," said his father, '' we have but just left 
him." 

"What, was that the wise man?" said all the chil- 
dren at once. 

Father. That was the .person of whom you heard 
me say last night, that he was a truly wise man. 

Philip. But, papa — I thought — 

Father. Well, what did you think? 

Philip. Why although he appears very good, and 
happy, and industrious, and all that, yet he certainly 
is not at all the kind of person we expected to see. 

Frederic. No, not at all. 

Father. I cannot help that ; and I still think that 
what I said of him was perfectly correct. What kind 
of a person did you expect to see ? 

Philip. Why, papa, we thought he would at least 
be a scholar, you know, with his head stuffed full of 
Latin and Greek; or a philosopher, or an author, or 
something of that sort. 



25 6 ' THE WISE MAN. 

Father. You mean that you expected to see a 
learned man, or a clever man. But that was your own 
fault ; I promised you no such thing. Are you not 
aware, children, that a man may be learned, or clever, 
or both, without being wise ; and that a man may be 
wise who is neither the one nor the other ? 

Frederic. Yes, wise in some things. 

Father. Wise in everything with which he has to 
do. Can you recollect, Frederic, that definition of 
wisdom we met with the other day ? 

Frederic. Something of this sort, was it not, — 
that " wisdom consists in employ i?ig the best means for 
the attainmeiit of the ?nost important eiid " 2 

Father. Very well. Then I think we have unques- 
tionably seen a wise man this morning. You heard 
from himself the grand object of this good man's 
pursuit ; and this must by every one be allowed to be 
the most important of all objects. He aims at nothing 
less than eternal life ; and to this end he appears to 
employ the best means, such as God himself pre- 
scribes. And this wisdom, which is from above, teaches 
him to conduct himself wisely in all the relations of life. 
He is wise as a tradesman, — being honest and indus- 
trious, and exerting his ingenuity in his calling, as a 
talent which God has given him ; so that he is one of 
the most ingenious mechanics in the neighborhood. 
He is wise as a neighbor, — living in peace and char- 
ity with all around him. He is wise as the master of a 
family, — being contented with such things as he has ; 
never attempting to vie with his superiors, nor aiming 
to be thought what he is not. He showed himself to 
be a wise man, by choosing for a partner a wise wo- 
man ; that is, a pious and prudent woman ; and he 
conducts himself wisely as a husband and a father, — 
guiding his house with discretion, and training his 
children to tread in his own steps. He eminently 
displays also one of the invariable characteristics of 



THE CLEVER FOOL, 257 

true wisdom, by his modest and unassuming deport- 
ment. But above all, and as the cause of all, this man 
is wise^ in making it his chief concern to be a Christian ; 
not merely by profession, but in earnest. His religion, 
you see, is of the true sort. It not only gives him a 
hope of being happy hereafter, but it makes him happy 
710W, It shines in his face, and reigns in his dwelling. 
In that solitary room where many would think it a 
punishment to pass an hour, he enjoys daily the high 
honor and happiness of holding communion with his 
Maker, while the noisy world below are disquieting 
themselves in vain with every passing vanity. And in 
his daily walk and conversation he has this testimony, 
that he pleases God. 

Now, children, have I not performed my promise? 
Tell me, if you have not seen, according to the strictest 
sense of the word, A Wise Man ? 



THE CLEVER FOOL. 

Not very long after the father and his children had 
paid their visit to the wise man, the effects of a gentle- 
man lately deceased in that neighborhood were adver- 
tised for sale by auction. As it was well known that 
his house contained many curiosities, persons from 
miles round flocked to attend the sale ; and amongst 
the rest this gentleman and his children, for he was so 
good a father that he suffered no opportunity to escape 
that might afford instruction or rational amusement to 
his family. 

" Children," said he to them, as they were driving to 
the place, "you remember that some time ago I took 
you to see a wise man. You were surprised by that 
visit ; perhaps you will be still more so when I tell you 
that we are going this morning to the late residence of 

17 



258 THE CLEVER FOOL. 

a man who, according to all that appeared of his char- 
acter, might with equal propriety have been called a 
clever fool r 

Philip. A clever fool ! 

Julia. It seems a contradiction. 

Frederic. Papa will explain it, I dare say. 

Kate. A clever fool, — how droll ! 

Father. As this poor gentleman was a stranger to 
you, and as our opinions can now do him neither good 
nor harm, I do not scruple, with a view of its being 
useful to ourselves, to relate to you what appeared 
unfavorable in his character. But let us, at the same 
time,, indulge a charitable hope that we may, after all, 
be mistaken in our judgment. Indeed, I could wish 
as much as possible to keep him, as an individual, out 
of sight. I only mean to explain to you that a person 
living and acting, as it is commonly reported he did, 
can claim no higher appellation than that of a clever 
fool. 

Children. Well, papa, now tell us how it was. 

Father. Nay, stay till we arrive at his house and 
have looked about us, and then you shall judge for 
yourselves. 

Upon their arrival at the destined spot, they were 
charmed with the beauty of the situation and the 
pleasant aspect of the residence. The house and 
grounds were rather compact and elegant than exten- 
sive or magnificent ; but there was a symmetry and 
beauty of design which at once pleased the eye, and 
conveyed an idea of the good taste of the possessor. 
And as the general view was striking, the detail, when 
examined, excited still greater admiration. Our party 
at first amused themselves with walking through the 
park and gardens, which exhibited at every turn some 
ingenious contrivance for pleasure or utility. The 
gardens displayed a variety of the most beautiful flow- 
ers, in the greatest perfection. The greenhouses were 



THE CLEVER FOOL. 259 

of themselves thought worth going many miles to see, 
they contained so rare a collection of exotics and other 
curious plants, disposed in the most exact order ; while 
fruits, in and out of season, yielded their tempting 
fragrance in rich profusion. Stately swans adorned the 
river that wound through the park ; while shady al- 
coves, rosy bowers, classic temples, baths and fountains, 
at every turn surprised the admiring visitor. The 
recesses of a shady grove conducted to a cool and 
beautiful grotto, which was enriched with some of the 
most rare and curious specimens in mineralogy. 
Lastly, they visited a small botanical garden, which 
afforded them much instruction as well as amusement ; 
for the late possessor was a man of science, and took 
particular pains with this well-arranged collection. 

The children were dehghted ; and not less surprised 
when they were assured that of these various embelHsh- 
ments and contrivances he was himself the designer and 
inventor, and that it was his own taste and ingenuity that 
was displayed in every part. 

Upon entering the mansion, the effect was not less 
striking. The apartments were disposed and furnished 
with great taste and elegance, and continually exhibited 
some novel invention for promoting ease or pleasure, 
or for avoiding inconvenience. But what were the 
most interesting were the valuable collections in the 
various departments of art and science with which this 
house was embelhshed. A capital collection of old 
pictures, by the best masters, occupied the long gallery. 
The library was extensive, and contained a well-ar- 
ranged assemblage of the works of the most cele- 
brated authors of every age and in every language. 

They were next shown a cabinet, containing a valua- 
ble assortment of ancient coins and medals ; after which 
they visited the laboratory, for it appeared that the 
deceased possessed a thorough knowledge of chemistry, 
and had himself made some ingenious discoveries in 



26o THE CLEVER FOOL, 

that interesting science. Another room was devoted to 
mechanism, and exhibited models of many of the most 
useful and ingenious machines of modern invention, 
some of them displaying improvements of his own. Last 
of all, ascending to the highest story, they reached the 
observatory, which was furnished with its appropriate 
apparatus, and contained the largest telescope these 
children had ever seen. The gentleman, it was said, 
frequently passed whole nights in this place ; astronomy 
was his favorite study. For all these things were not 
collected by him (as is frequently the case in the houses 
of the rich) as mere appendages to wealth. The curi- 
osities of science, art, and literature, are commonly 
enough to be seen in the possession of persons of trifling 
and vulgar minds, wholly incapable of deriving any other 
gratification from them than as articles of show, and 
who value them merely as they do the other expensive 
ornaments of their dwelHngs. But in this instance they 
were possessed by a man of taste and science, who 
derived genuine pleasure from the pursuits in which he 
was engaged, and who was therefore so far happy, use- 
ful, and respectable. When the party descended to 
the lower part of the house they found it filled with 
company, and the great hall exhibited a scene of noise, 
bustle, and confusion. The auctioneer was at that 
moment expatiating on the value of an article before 
him, which some were cautiously examining ; others 
were marking their catalogues, — each was intent on his 
own interests, and nothing was less thought of than he 
to whom all had so lately belonged. 

"Let us leave this noisy place, papa," said Julia, 
"it makes me melancholy." 

They soon made their way through the crowd ; and 
leaving the mansion, their father led them through a 
fine plantation to the outskirts of the park, where they 
soon discovered a little ivy-clad steeple, embowered in 
dark chestnut trees, surrounded by a few lowly graves, 



THE CLEVER FOOL, 26 1 

and adorned with one or two stately monuments. 
^' Here," said the father, pointing to one of these, " lie 
the remains of this accompHshed person." 

" Now then, papa," said Philip, ^' pray tell us — 
though I partly guess — why you called such a clever 
man a fool." 

" Because," replied his father, " of his whole existence, 
which he knew would be endless, he apparently pro- 
vided for no more than the exceedingly small propor- 
tion of sixty-eight years. It is true that to make these 
sixty-eight years pass pleasantly he spared no pains; 
and we will allow that he so far succeeded as to enjoy, 
during that time, more rational pleasure than most men 
who live only for this world. But, granting this, is it 
not still the lowest degree of folly for a man to devote 
all the energies of his mind to securing the comfort and 
entertainment of so short a period, and to make no 
provision for an eternal existence ? There he Hes ! All 
that he ever appeared to care for he has lost forever ! 
Those curious collections which he made with so much 
pains and cost, — all those fruits of his patient and 
laborious studies, which we have been admiring, — will 
in a few hours be disposed of and dispersed ; the cheer- 
ful mansion will be empty and deserted, other inhabi- 
tants will occupy it ; in a few years his name will be no 
more remembered ! So that the only thing that was of 
any real consequence to him is that which, it is greatly 
to be feared, he totally neglected. 

'' But the extremity of his folly was this, — that this 
change which he has undergone, this loss of all that he 
valued, was what he was well aware must somewhere 
about this time befall him. He knew as well as all 
other men that he must die. He knew, too, that the 
great Creator, whose works he spent his life in investigat- 
ing and admiring, had by an express revelation informed 
him, in common with others, of the only way of secur- 
ing everlasting life and happiness. Of these things he 



262 THE CLEVER FOOL, 

could not be ignorant, nor did I ever understand that 
he professed to doubt them ; yet, strange to say, that 
divine volume stood unopened on his shelves. It is 
said this unhappy man rarely read the Bible ; that he 
who could spend whole nights in gazing on the heavens, 
bent not his knee to the Former of them all; that 
while so plenteously partaking the bounties of His provi- 
dence, he never (unless with the utmost formality) ac- 
knowledged his obligation, or appeared to feel his 
dependence. Even of late, when he knew he must be 
drawing towards the close of life, he appeared to 
engage with as much avidity as ever in his favorite 
pursuits. Though he loved conversation, and dehghted 
to discourse on other subjects, yet he was never known 
to talk about the life to come, upon which he was so 
soon to enter. Thus he deliberately chose to enjoy 
these few poor years, and to neglect his concerns for 
immortahty. Now if this clever man had purposely 
set fire to his beautiful house, and had calmly seen all 
his valuable collections consumed by the flames, every- 
body would have exclaimed, ' What a fool ! ' As it 
was, he was extolled and applauded by most men, 
although guilty of incomparably greater madness than 
this. 

'' Children, endeavor to conceive (though it is 
impossible you should fully comprehend it) the tre- 
mendous folly of neglecting a book which God has sent 
us to read ! It is only because it is so very common 
for men to disregard their Bibles, that we are not more 
struck with the strange absurdity of it. This gentleman 
was particularly admired for the universality of his tal- 
ents ; and it was always spoken to his praise that, while 
so much engaged in scientific pursuits, he attended 
equally to the elegances and refinements of hfe ; he was 
as cheerful a companion, and as finished a gentleman, 
as he was a sound philosopher. But, alas, how very 
far, it is to be feared, he was from being universally 



THE CLEVER FOOL. 263 

sagacious ! How very partial and limited even was 
his cleverness ! He not only knew that in a few years 
he must die, but, in some ways, he deliberately prepared 
for the event. He made his will ; he gave particular di- 
rections as to what should take place after his decease ; 
he even caused this vault to be built, left directions for 
his funeral, and wrote an inscription for his monument. 
So that, you see, he left nothing undone but that one 
thing which, alone, was of real consequence to him. 
This poor clever fool had no forethought, made no 
provision for his soul ! 

" I have been told that the last thing that occupied 
his attention was an improved method of raising pine- 
apples. By a great deal of thought and ingenuity, he 
succeeded in raising them some weeks earlier, and of 
a finer sort, than any that were grown in the neighbor- 
hood. Yes, children, here was a man of nearly seventy, 
really interested dhont pine- apples, while the great busi- 
ness of his eternal welfare was still unattended to ! A 
party of friends was invited to dine with him, in order 
to partake of this rich dessert ; but on the eve of this 
intended entertainment it was said to him, ' This night 
thy soul shall be required of thee.' He was found 
the next morning dead in his bed ; and now, whose 
are those things that he possessed? " 

Julia. Oh, papa ! 

Father. Now, children, let us leave this melancholy 
spot ; remembering that whether or not our fears of this 
individual are well founded, we are but too well assured 
that the world abounds with men and women who if 
not as clever are quite as foolish as we have supposed 
him to have been. Let it be 07ir chief concern that 
we may not be of the number. But never, never, till 
that day when this sepulchre shall be torn open by the 
voice of the archangel, will any human mind be fully 
able to comprehend the dreadful difference between a 
plain wise mart, and a clever fooL 



POEMS. 



TO. MADAME DE STAEL. 

WRITTEN AFTER READING " CORINNE, OU L'iTALIE." 

O WOMAN, greatly gifted ! why 
Wert thou not gifted from on high ? 
What had that noble genius done, 
That knew all hearts — all things, but one^ 
Had that been known ? Oh, would it might 
Be whispered, here she took her flight ! 
Where, where is that fine spirit hurled, 
That seemed unmeet for either world ? 

While o*er thy magic page I bend, 
I know thee, claim thee for my friend ; 
With thee a secret converse hold. 
And see my inmost thoughts unfold. 
Each notion crude, defined, expressed ; 
And certain, what I vaguely guessed. 
And hast thou taught, with cruel skill, 
The art to suffer better still ; 
Griefs finest secret to explore. 
Though understood too well before ? 
Ah, well ! I 'd thank thee if I might ; 
Although so wrong, thou art so right ! 
While I condemn, my heart replies, 
And deeper feelings sympathize. 



TO MADAME DE STAEL, 265 

Thy view of life, that painful view, — 
How false it is ! and yet how true ! 
" Life without love — a cheerless strife ; 
Yet love so rarely given to life." 
And why must truth and virtue, why, 
This mighty claim of love deny ? 
What was this earth, so full, so fair ? 
A cheerless desert, bleak, and bare — 
God knew it was — till love was there. 
Say, has the heart a glance at bliss — 
One — till it glance or gaze at this ? 
Ah, no ! unblessed, unsoothed the lot. 
Fair though it seem, that knows it not ! 
'T is true ! and to the truth replies 
A thousand joyless hearts and eyes, — 
Eyes beamless, hearts that do not break — 
They cannot — but that always ache ; 
And slowly wither, day by day, 
Till life at last is dried away. 

" Love, or Religion ; " yes, she knew 
Life has no choice but 'twixt the two. 
But when she sought that balm to find, 
She guessed and groped, but still was blind. 
Aloft she flew, yet failed to see 
Aught but an earthly deity. 
The humble Christian's holy love. 
Oh, how it calmly soars above 
These storms of passion ! Yes, too much 
I Ve felt her talent's magic touch. 
Return, my soul, to that retreat 
From sin and woe — thy Saviour's feet I 
There learn an art she never knew, 
The heart's own empire to subdue : 
A large, but willing sacrifice ; 
All to resign that He denies ; 
To him in meek submission bend, 



266 TO THE MOON. 

Own Him an all-sufficient friend ; 
Here, and in holy worlds above, 
My portion — and my only love ! 

September 23, 1822, 



TO THE MOON. 

What is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night, 

That secret intelligent grace ? 
Oh, why should I gaze with such tender delight 

On thy fair, but insensible face ? 

What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam. 

Beyond the warm sunshine of day? 
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream. 

Where dances thy tremulous ray. 

Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile. 

Or griefs fond indulgence suspend ? 
Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile. 

And loves thee almost as a friend ? 

The tear that looks bright in thy beam as it flows 

Unmoved thou dost ever behold ; 
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose. 

To thee it has never been told. 

And yet thou dost soothe me, and ever I find. 

While watching thy gentle retreat, 
A moonlight composure steal over the mind. 

Poetical, pensive, and sweet. 

I think of the years that forever are fled ; 
Of follies by others forgot ; 



A STORY. 267 

Of joys that are vanished, of hopes that are dead, 
Of friendships that were, and are not. 

I think of the future — still gazing the while, 

As thou couldst those secrets reveal ; 
But ne'er dost thou grant an encouraging smile, 

To answer the mournful appeal. 

Those beams which so bright through my casement 
appear, 

To far distant scenes they extend ; 
Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear, 

And sleep on the grave of ray friend. 

Then still I must love thee, mild Queen of the Night, 

Since feeling and fancy agree 
To make thee a source of unfailing delight, 

A friend and a solace to me. 

x8ii. 



A STORY. 

There once was a man who contrived a balloon, 
To carry him whither ? — why, up to the moon. 
One fine starlight night he set sail for the sky, 
And joyfully bid our poor planet good-by. 
He mounted aloft with incredible speed, 
And saw the green earth every moment recede. 
" Farewell," he exclaimed, '^ to thy pride and conceit, 
Oppression and injury, fraud and deceit ; 
Thy flagrant abuses, thy luxury too, 
And all thy gay pageants, — forever adieu. 



268 A STORY. 

Thy festivals, spectacles, learning and lore ; 
My share in thy pleasures I gladly restore, — 
Thy kings and thy nobles, lords, ladies, and squires. 
And all the poor world in its dotage admires. 
From its factions and parties and politics free, 
The statesmen and heroes are nothing to me ; 
Bonaparte in his cage, on Helena's wild shore, 
And all his devices, to me are no more. 
Farewell to thy valleys, in verdure arrayed ; 
Farewell to thy merchandise, traffic and trade ; 
Thy wide- swelling rivers that roll to the seas ; 
Thy dark waving forests, that sigh to the breeze, — 
From Britain to China, or Ganges' wide stream ; 
All fades on my sight like a vanishing dream." 

He spoke, and with pleasure soon darted his eyes on 
The moon, just appearing above the horizon ; 
And sitting upright with his hand in his pocket, 
Shot up the dark sky into space, like a rocket. 
But the swiftness with which his light vehicle sped 
Brought on such a giddiness into his head. 
That he lay a long time in his boat without knowing 
How long he had been or which way he was going. 
At length he aroused from his stupor, when, lo 1 
The beautiful planet was shining below ! 
Already so near was he come, as to see 
Its mountains and valleys, as plain as could be. 
With feehngs no language could well represent, 
He quickly prepared his machine for descent. 
A fine open plain, much resembling, he said. 
Some spots in old England, before him was spread. 
Whose smoothness and verdure his presence invited ; 
And there, all amazement, our traveller alighted. 
What thrillings of rapture, what tears of delight, 
Now melted this signally fortunate wight ; 
And thus he expressed his astonishment soon : 
^' Dear me, what a wonder to be in the moon ! " 



RECREATION. 269 

'T was now early morning, the firmament clear ; 
For there the sun rises, the same as down here. 
He took out his pocket-book, therefore, and wrote 
Whatever he saw that was worthy of note. 
For instance^ the soil appeared sandy and loose ; 
The pasture much finer than we can produce. 
He picked up a stone, which he wished he could hand 
To some Jearned geologists down in our land. 
A blue little weed next attracted our writer, 
Not very unlike to our hare-bell, but brighter, 
And looked, as he said, most decidedly lunar, — 
He wished he had come on this enterprise sooner. 
But still he was far more impatient to trace 
What sort of inhabitants lived in the place. 
Perhaps they were dragons, or horrible things, 
Like fishes with feathers, or serpents with wings. 
Thus deeply engaged in conjectural thought, 
His eye by an object was suddenly caught ; 
To which, on advancing, he found, you must know, 
*T was just such a mile-stone as ours are below. 
And he read, ail amazed, in plain English this line, 
^^ Twelve miles to old Sarum, to Andover nine." 
In short, the whole wonder at once to explain, 
The man had alighted on Salisbury Plain. 



RECREATION. 

We took our work, and went, you see, 
To take an early cup of tea. 
We did so now and then, to pay 
The friendly debt, — and so did they. 
Not that our friendship burnt so bright 
That all the world could see the light ; 
'T was of the ordinary genus , 



270 RECREATION, 

And little love was lost between us. 
We loved, I think, about as true 
As such near neighbors mostly do. 

At first, we all were somewhat dry ; 
Mamma felt cold, and so did I. 
Indeed, that room, sit where you will, 
Has draught enough to turn a mill. 
" I hope you 're warm," says Mrs. G. 
^* Oh, quite so," says mamma, says she ; 
" I '11 take my shawl off by and by." 
" This room is always warm," says I. 

At last the tea came up, and so 
With that our tongues began to go. 
Now in that house you 're sure of knowing 
The smallest scrap of news that 's going. 
We find it there the wisest way 
To take some care of what we say. 

Says she, " There 's dreadful doings still 
In that affair about the will ; 
' For now the folks in Brewer's Street 
Don't speak to James's, when they meet. 
Poor Mrs. Sam sits all alone, 
And frets herself to skin and bone. 
For months she managed, she declares. 
All the old gentleman's affairs ; 
And always let him have his way, 
And never left him night nor day ; 
Waited and watched his every look, 
And gave him every drop he took. 
Dear Mrs. Sam, it was too bad ! 
He might have left her all he had." 

" Pray, md'am," says I, " has poor Miss A. 
Been left as handsome as they say? " 



RECREATION. 271 

^' My dear/' says she, " 'tis no such thing, 
She 'd nothing but a mourning ring. 
But is it not uncommon mean, 
To wear that rusty bombazine ! " 
^' She had,'' says I, " the very same. 
Three years ago, for — what 's his name ? " 
** The Duke of Brunswick ; very true, 
And has not bought a thread of new, 
I 'm positive," said Mrs. G. 
So then we laughed, and drank our tea. 

^' So," says mamma, " I find it 's true 
What Captain P. intends to do, — 
To hire that house, or else to buy — " 
^* Close to the tan-yard, ma'am," says I. 
^' Upon my word it 's very strange, 
I wish they may n't repent the change ! '* 
^* My dear," says she, " 't is very well 
You know, if they can bear the smell.** 

" Miss F.," says I, " is said to be 
A sweet young woman, Mrs. G." 
^' Oh, excellent ! I hear," she cried ; 
" Oh, truly so ! " mamma replied. 
" How old should you suppose her, pray ? 
She 's older than she looks, they say." 
" Really," says I, ''' she seems to me 
Not more than twenty- two or three." 
" Oh, then you 're wrong," says Mrs. G. 
" Their upper servant told our Jane, 
She '11 not see twenty-nine again." 
" Indeed, so old ? I wonder why 
She does not marry, then," says I ; 
" So many thousands to bestow, 
And such a beauty, too, you know.** 
" A beauty ! Oh, my dear Miss B., 
You must be joking now," says she. 



272 RECREA TlOJSr. 

" Her figure *s rather pretty," — ^* Ah ! 
That 's what I say/' replied mamma. 

" Miss F./' says I, " I Ve understood, 
Spends all her time in doing good. 
The people say her coming down 
Is quite a blessing to the town." 
At that our hostess fetched a sigh, 
And shook her head ; and so says I, 
" It 's very kind of her, I 'm sure, 
To be so generous to the poor." 
" No doubt," says she, " 't is very true ; 
Perhaps here may be reasons too, — 
You know some people like to pass 
For patrons with the lower class." 

And here I break my story's thread. 
Just to remark that what she said, 
Although I took the other part, 
Went like a cordial to my heart. 

Some innuendoes more had passed, 
Till out the scandal came at last, 
^' Come, then, I '11 tell you something more," 
Says she, — " Eliza, shut the door. 
I would not trust a creature here, 
For aU the world, but you, my dear. 
Perhaps it 's false, — I wish it may, — 
But let it go no further, pray ! " 
" Oh," says mamma, ^^you need not fear; 
We never mention what we hear." 
" Indeed we shall not, Mrs. G.," 
Says I, again, impatiently : 
And so we drew our chairs the nearer, 
And, whispering, lest the child should hear her, 
She told a tale, at least too long 
To be repeated in a song ; 



THE CHURCH^YARD. 273 

We panting every breath between, 
With curiosity and spleen. 
And how we did enjoy the sport, 
And echo every faint report, 
And answer every candid doubt. 
And turn her motives inside out, 
And each reputed virtue hide, — 
Till we were fully satisfied 1 

Thus having brought it to a close. 
In great good humor we arose. 
Indeed, 't was more than time to go, 
Our boy had been an hour below. 
So, warmly pressing Mrs. G. 
To fix a day to come to tea. 
We muffled up in cloak and plaid. 
And trotted home behind the lad. 



THE CHURCH-YARD. 

The moon rises bright in the east. 

The stars with pure brilliancy shine ; 
The songs of the woodland have ceased. 

And still is the low of the kine. 
The men, from their work on the hill, 

Trudge homeward with pitchfork and flail ; 
The buzz of the hamlet is still. 

And the bat flaps his wings in the gale. 

And, see ! from those darkly green trees 

Of cypress, and holly, and yew, 
That wave their black arms in the breeze, 

The old village church is in view. 
18 



2 74 THE CHURCH-YARD. 

The owl, from her ivied retreat, 

Screams hoarse to the winds of the night ; 
And the clock, with its solemn repeat, 

Has tolled the departure of light. 

My child, let us wander alone. 

When half the wide world is in bed, 
And read o'er the mouldering stone, 

That tells of the mouldering dead. 
And let us remember it well. 

That we must as certainly die ; 
For us, too, may toll the sad bell. 

And in the cold earth we must lie. 

You are not so healthy and gay, 

So young, so active and bright. 
That death cannot snatch you away, 

Or some dreadful accident smite. 
Here lie both the young and the old, 

Confined in the coffin so small. 
And the earth closes over them cold. 

And the grave-worm devours them all. 

In vain were the beauty and bloom 

That once o'er their bodies were spread ; 
Now still, in the desolate tomb. 

Each rests his inanimate head. 
Their hands, once so active for play, 

Their lips, which so merrily sung, 
Now senseless and motionless lay. 

And stiff is the chattering tongue. 

Then seek not, my child, as the best. 

Those things which so shortly must fade ; 

Let piety dwell in thy breast. 
And all of thine actions pervade. 



SPRING. 275 

And then, when beneath the green sod 

This active young body shall lie, 
Thy soul shall ascend to its God, 

To live with the blest in the sky. 



SPRING. 



Ah ! see how the ices are melting away ! 

The rivers have burst from their chain ; 
The woods and the hedges with verdure look gay 

And daisies enamel the plain. 

The sun rises high, and shines warm o'er the dale, 
The orchards with blossoms are white ; 

The voice of the woodlark is heard in the vale, 
And the cuckoo returns from her flight. 

Young lambs sport and frisk on the side of the hill, 
The honey-bee wakes from his sleep ; 

The turtle-dove opens her soft-cooing bill, 
And snowdrops and primroses peep. 

All Nature looks active, delightful, and gay ; 

The creatures begin their employ ; 
Ah ! let me not be less industrious than they, — 

An idle or indolent boy. 

Now while in the spring of my vigor and bloom, 
In the paths of fair learning I '11 run ; 

Nor let the best part of my being consume, 
With nothing of consequence done. 



276 SUMMER. 

Thus while to my lessons with care I attend, 
And store up the knowledge I gain, 

When the winter of age shall upon me descend, 
'T will cheer the dark season of pain. 



SUMMER. 



The heats of summer come hastily on, n 

The fruits are transparent and clear ; 
The buds and the blossoms of April are gone, 

And the deep-colored cherries appear. 

The blue sky above us is bright and serene. 

No cloud on its bosom remains ; 
The woods and the fields and the hedges are green, 

And the haycock smells sweet from the plains. 

Down far in the valley where bubbles the spring 
Which soft through the meadow-land glides, 

The lads from the mountain the heavy sheep bring, 
And shear the warm coat from their sides. 

Ah ! let me lie down in some shady retreat. 

Beside the meandering stream ; 
For the sun darts abroad an unbearable heat. 

And bums with his over-head beam. 

There all the day idle my limbs I '11 extend. 

Fanned soft to delicious repose ; 
While round me a thousand sweet odors ascend 

From ev'ry gay wood-flower that blows. 



AUTUMN. 277 

But, hark ! from the woodlands what sounds do I hear? 

The voices of pleasure so gay ; 
The merry young haymakers cheerfully bear 

The heat of the hot summer's day. 

While some with bright scythe, singing shrill to the tone, 

The tall grass and buttercups mow, 
Some spread it with rakes, and by others 't is thrown 

Into sweet-smelling cocks in a row. 

Then since joy and glee with activity join, 

This moment to labor I '11 rise ; 
While the idle love best in the shade to recline, 

And waste precious time as it flies. 

To waste precious time we can never recall, 

Is waste of the wickedest kind ; 
An instant of life has more value than all 

The gold that in India they find. 

Not diamonds, that brilliantly beam in the mine. 
For one moment's time should be given ; 

For gems can but make us look gaudy and fine. 
But time can prepare us for heaven. 



AUTUMN. 



The sun is far risen above the old trees. 
His beams on the silver dew play ; 

The gossamer tenderly waves in the breeze, 
And the mists are fast rolling away. 



278 TO A LITTLE GIRL 

Let US leave the warm bed and the pillow of down ; 

The morning fair bids us arise, 
Little boy ; for the shadows of midnight are flown, 

And sunbeams peep into our eyes. 

We '11 pass by the garden that leads to the gate, — 

But where is its gayety now? 
The Michaelmas daisy blows lonely and late, 

And the yellow leaf whirls from the bough. 

Last night the glad reapers their harvest-home sung, 
And stored the full garners with grain ; 

Did you hear how the woods with their merry shouts 
rung. 
As they bore the last sheaf from the plain? 

But, hark ! from the woodlands the sound of a gun ! 

The wounded bird flutters and dies. 
Ah ! surely 't is wicked, for nothing but fun, 

To shoot the poor thing as it flies. 

The timid hare, too, in afliright and dismay. 
Runs swift through the brushwood and grass ; 

How she turns, how she winds ! and she tries every way, 
But the cruel dogs won't let her pass. 



TO A LITTLE GIRL THAT HAS TOLD 
A LIE. 

And has my darling told a lie ? 
Did she forget that God was by ? 
That God, who saw the thing she did, 
From whom no action can be hid, — 



THAT HAS TOLD A LIE. 279 

Did she forget that God could see, 
And hear, wherever she might be ? 

He made your eyes, and can discern 
Whichever way you think to turn ; 
He made your ears, and he can hear 
When you may think nobody 's near. 
In every place, by night or day. 
He watches all you do and say. 

You thought, because you were alone, 
Your falsehood never could be known. 
But liars always are found out. 
Whatever ways they wind about ; 
And always be afraid, my dear. 
To tell a lie — - for God can hear ! 

I wish, my dear, you 'd always try 
To act as shall not need a lie. 
And when you wish a thing to do 
That has been once forbidden you, 
Remember that, nor ever dare 
To disobey — for God is there ! 

Why should you fear to tell me true ? 
Confess, and then I '11 pardon you. 
Tell me you 're sorry, and will try 
To act the better by and by. 
And then, whate'er your crime has been. 
It won't be half so great a sin. 

But cheerful, innocent, and gay, 
As passes by the smiling day. 
You '11 never have to turn aside 
From any one your faults to hide ; 
Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear, 
That either God or I should hear. 



28o MEDDLESOME MATTY, 



MEDDLESOME MATTY. 

Oh, how one ugly trick has spoiled 

The sweetest and the best ! 
Matilda, though a pleasant child, 

One ugly trick possessed, 
Which, like a cloud before the skies, 
Hid all her better qualities. 

Sometimes she 'd lift the teapot lid, 

To peep at what was in it ; 
Or tilt the kettle, if you did 

But turn your back a minute. 
In vain you told her not to touch, 
Her trick of meddling grew so much. 

Her grandmamma went out one day. 

And by mistake she laid 
Her spectacles and snuff-box gay 

Too near the little maid : 
"Ah ! well,'' thought she, " I '11 try them on, 
As soon as grandmamma is gone.'' 

Forthwith she placed upon her nose 

The glasses, large and wide ; 
And looking round, as I suppose. 

The snuff-box too she spied. 
" Oh, what a pretty box is this ! 
I '11 open it," said little miss. 

" I know that grandmamma would say, 

' Don't meddle with it, dear 1 ' 
But then, she 's far enough away. 

And no one else is near. 



MEDDLESOME MATTY, 281 

Besides, what can there be amiss 
In opening such a box as this ? '* 

So thumb and finger went to work 

To move the stubborn lid ; 
And presently a mighty jerk 

The mighty mischief did ; 
For all at once, ah ! woful case, 
The snuff came pufiing in her face ! 

Poor eyes and nose, and mouth and chin, 

A dismal sight presented ; 
And as the snuff got further in 

Sincerely she repented. 
In vain she ran about for ease, 
She could do nothing else but sneeze ! 

She dashed the spectacles away, 

To wipe her tingling eyes ; 
And as in twenty bits they lay. 

Her grandmamma she spies. 
" Hey-day ! and what 's the matter now? " 
Cried grandmamma, with lifted brow. 

Matilda, smarting with the pain, 

And tingling still, and sore. 
Made many a promise to refrain 

From meddling evermore ; 
And 't is a fact, as I have heard, 
She ever since has kept her word. 



282 THE WORM. 



THE WORM. 



No, little worm, you need not slip 

Into your hole, with such a skip ; 

Drawing the gravel as you glide 

On to your smooth and slimy side. 

I 'm not a crow, poor worm, not I, 

Peeping about your holes to spy, 

And fly away with you in air. 

To give my young ones each a share. 

No ; and I *m not a rolling-stone. 

Creaking along with hollow groan ; 

Nor am I of the naughty crew 

Who don't care what poor worms go through, 

But trample on them as they lay, 

Rather than step the other way ; 

Or keep them dangling on a hook. 

Choked in a dismal pond or brook, ^ 

Till some poor fish comes swimming past. 

And finishes their pain at last. ^ 

For my part, I could never bear 

Your tender flesh to hack and tear. 

Forgetting that poor worms endure 

As much as I should, to be sure. 

If any giant should come and jump 

On to my back, and kill me plump ; 

Or run my heart through with a scythe, 

And think it fun to see me writhe ! 

Oh no, I 'm only looking about 
To see you wriggle in and out. 
And drawing together your slimy rings. 
Instead of feet, like other things. 
So, little worm, don't slide and slip 
Into your hole, with such a skip. 



FIRE. 283 



FIRE. 



What is it that shoots from the mountains so high, 

In many a beautiful spire ? 
What is it that blazes and curls to the sky ? 

This beautiful something is Fire. 

Loud noises are heard in the caverns to groan, 

Hot cinders fall thicker than snow ; 
Huge stones to a wonderful distance are thrown, 

For burning fire rages below. 

When Winter blows bleak, and loud bellows the storm. 

And frostily twinkle the stars ; 
Then bright burns the fire in the chimney so warm. 

And the kettle sings shrill on the bars. 

Then call the poor traveller, covered with snow, 

And warm him with charity kind ; 
Fire is not so warm as the feelings that glow 

In the friendly, benevolent mind. 

By fire rugged metals are fitted for use, — 

Iron, copper, gold, silver, and tin ; 
Without its assistance we could not produce 

So much as a minikin pin. 

Fire rages with fury wherever it comes, 

If only one spark should be dropped ; 
Whole houses, or cities, sometimes it consumes. 

Where its violence cannot be stopped. 

And when the great morning of judgment shall rise. 

How wide will its blazes be curled ! 
With heat, fervent heat, it shall melt down the skies, 

And burn up this beautiful world. 



284 AIR. 



AIR. 



What is it that winds about over the world, 

Spread thin like a covering fair? 
Into each crack and crevice 't is artfully curled ; 

This sly little fluid is Air. 

In summer's still evening how peaceful it floats, 

When not a leaf moves on the spray, 
And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes, 

And merry gnats dancing away. 

The village bells glide on its bosom serene, 

And steal in sweet cadence along ; 
The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green, 

And the cottage girls join in the song. 

But when winter blows, then it bellows aloud. 

And roars in the northerly blast ; 
With fury drives on the snowy blue cloud, 

And cracks the tall, tapering mast. 

The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies 

In billows and fringes of foam ; 
And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes 

Towards his dear, peaceable home. 

When fire lies and smothers, or gnaws thro' the beam, 

Air forces it fiercer to glow ; 
And engines in vain their cold torrents may stream. 

Unless the wind ceases to blow. 

In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak. 

That many a tempest had known ; 
The tall mountain's pine into splinters is broke, 

And over the precipice blown. 



EARTH. 285 

And yet, though it rages with fur>' so wild, 

On the solid earth, water, or fire. 
Without its assistance the tenderest child 

Would struggle, and gasp, and expire. 

Pure air, pressing into the curious clay, 

Gave life to these bodies at first ; 
And when in the bosom it ceases to play, 

We crumble again to our dust. 



EARTH. 



What is it that 's covered so richly with green, 

And gives to the forest its birth ? 
A thousand plants bloom on its bosom serene ; 

Whose bosom ? — the bosom of Earth. 

Hidden deep in its bowels the emerald shines. 

The ruby, and amethyst blue ; 
And silver and gold glitter bright in the mines 

Of Mexico rich, and Peru. 

Large quarries of granite and marble are spread 
In its wonderful bosom like bones ; 

Chalks, gravel, and coals, salt, sulphur, and lead, 
And thousands of beautiful stones. 

Beasts, savage and tame, of all colors and forms. 
Either stalk in its deserts, or creep ; 

White bears sit and growl to the northerly storms, 
And shaggy goats bound firom the steep. 



286 WATER, 

The oak and the snowdrop, the cedar and rose, 

Alike on its bosom are seen ; 
The tall fir of Norway, surrounded with snows, 

And the mountain-ash scarlet and green. 

Fine grass and rich mosses creep over its hills, 
A thousand flowers breathe in the gale ; 

Tall water-seeds dip in its murmTiring rills. 
And harvests wave bright in the vale. 

And when this poor body is cold and decayed, 
And this warm throbbing heart is at rest. 

My head upon thee, mother Earth, shall be laid, 
To find a long home in thy breast. 



WATER. 



What is it that glitters so clear and serene, 

Or dances in billows so white ? 
Ships skimming along on its surface are seen, — 

'T is water that glitters so bright. 

Sea-weeds wind about in its cavities wet. 

The pearl oyster quietly sleeps ; 
A thousand fair shells, yellow, amber, and jet, 

And coral, glow red in its deeps. 

Whales lash the white foam in their frolicsome wrath, 
While hoarsely the winter wind roars ; 

And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north. 
And wander along by our shores. 



WATER, 287. 



When tempests sweep over its bosom serene, 

Like mountains its billows arise ; 
The ships now appear to be buried between, — 

And now, carried up to the skies. 

It gushes out clear from the sides of the hill, 
And sparkles right down from the steep ; 

Then waters the valley, and roars through the mill, 
And wanders in many a sweep. 

The traveller that crosses the desert so wide. 

Hot, weary, and stifled with dust, 
Longs often to stoop at some rivulet's side, 

To quench in its waters his thirst. 

The stately white swan glides along on its breast. 

Nor ruffles its surface serene ; 
And the duckling unfledged waddles out of its nest, 

To dabble in ditch-water green. 

The clouds blown about in the chilly blue sky 

Vast cisterns of water contain ; 
Like snowy white feathers in winter they fly. 

In summer stream gently in rain. 

When sunbeams so bright on the falling drops shine. 

The rainbow enlivens the shower, 
And glows in the heavens a beautiful sign. 

That water shall drown us no more. 



288 MV MOTHER, 



MY MOTHER. 



Who fed me from her gentle breast, 
And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed ? 

My Mother. 

When sleep forsook my open eye, 

Who was it sang sweet lullaby. 

And rocked me that I should not cry? 

My Mother. 

Who sat and watched my infant head, 
When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
And tears of sweet affection shed ? 

My Mother. 

When pain and sickness made me cry, 
Who gazed upon my heavy eye. 
And wept for fear that I should die? 

My Mother. 

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, 
And taught me pretty how to play. 
And minded all I had to say ? 

My Mother. 

Who ran to help me when I fell, 
And would some pretty story tell, 
Or kiss the place to make it well ? 

My Mother. 

Who taught my infant lips to pray. 
And love God's holy book and day, 
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way? 

My Mother. 



READING, 289 

And can I ever cease to be 
Affectionate and kind to thee, 
Who wast so very kind to me ? 

My Mother. 

Ah ! no, the thought I cannot bear ; 
And if God please my Hfe to spare, 
I hope I shall reward thy care, 

My Mother. 

When thou art feeble, old, and gray. 
My healthy arms shall be thy stay. 
And I will soothe thy pains away. 

My Mother. 

And when I see thee hang thy head, 
'T will be my turn to watch thy bed, 
And tears of sweet affection shed. 

My Mother. 

For God, who lives above the skies. 
Would look with vengeance in his eyes. 
If I should ever dare despise 

My Mother. 



READING. 

" And so you do not like to spell, 
Mary, my dear ? Oh, very well ; 
T is dull and troublesome, you say, 
And you had rather be at play. 

" Then bring me all your books again, ■ 
Nay, Mary, why do you complain ? 

19 



290 IDLENESS. 

For as you do not choose to read, 
You shall not have your books, indeed. 

'' So, as you wish to be a dunce, 
Pray go and fetch me them at once ; 
For as you will not learn to spell, 
'T is vain to think of reading well. 

^' Now don't you think you '11 blush to own, 
When you become a woman grown, 
Without one good excuse to plead, 
That you have never learned to read? " 

^' O dear mamma," said Mary then, 
^^ Do let me have my books again, 
I never more will fret, indeed. 
If you will let me learn to read.'* 



IDLENESS. 

Some people complain they have nothing to do, 

And time passes slowly away ; 
They saunter about with no object in view. 

And long for the end of the day. 

In vain are their riches, or honors, or birth, 

They nothing can truly enjoy ; 
They 're the wretch edest creatures that live on the earth, 

For want of some pleasing employ. 

When people have no need to work for their bread, 

And indolent always have been, 
It never so much as comes into their head 

That wasting their time is a sin. 



THE PIN. 291 

But man was created for some useful employ, 

From earth's first creation till now ; 
And 't is good for his health, his comfort, and joy, 

To live by the sweat of his brow. 

And those who of riches are fully possessed 

Are not for that reason exempt ; 
If they give themselves up to an indolent rest. 

They are objects of real contempt. 

The pleasure that constant employments create. 

By them cannot be understood ; 
And though they may rank with the rich and the great. 

They never can rank with the good. 



THE PIN. 



" Dear me ! what signifies a pin, 
Wedged in a rotten board ? 

I 'm certain that I won't begin 
At ten years old to hoard ! 

I never will be called a miser, 

That, I 'm determined," said Eliza. 

So onward tripped the little maid 

And left the pin behind, 
Which very snug and quiet laid. 

To its hard fate resigned ; 
Nor did she think (a careless chit) 
'T was worth her while to stoop for it. 

Next day a party was to ride 
To see an air balloon y 



292 THE CHATTERBOX, 

And all the company beside 

Were dressed and ready soon ; 
But she a woful case was in, 
For want of just a single pin ! 

In vain her eager eye she brings 
To every darksome crack ; 

There was not one ! and all her things 
Were dropping off her back. 

She cut her pincushion in two, 

But, no ! not one had slidden through. 

At last, as hunting on the floor 

Over a crack she lay. 
The carriage rattled to the door, 

Then rattled fast away ; 
But poor Eliza was not in. 
For want of just — a single pin. 

There 's hardly anything so small, 

So trifling, or so mean. 
That we may never want at all 

For service unforeseen. 
And wilful waste, depend upon 't, 
Is, almost always, woful want ! 



THE CHATTERBOX. 

From morning till night it was Lucy's delight 
To chatter and talk without stopping ; 

There was not a day but she rattled away. 
Like water forever a-dropping ! 



THE SNOWDROP. 293 

As soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes, 

T was vain to endeavor to still her ; 
Nor once did she lack to continue her clack, 

Till again she lay down on her pillow. 

You '11 think now, perhaps, that there would have been 
gaps, 

If she had not been wonderful clever ; 
That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate, 

That it would be forthcoming forever. 

But that 's quite absurd, for have you not heard 
That much tongue and few brains are connected ; 

That they are supposed to think least who talk most, 
And their wisdom is always suspected ? 

While Lucy was young, if she 'd bridled her tongue 

With a little good sense and exertion. 
Who knows but she might now have been our delight. 

Instead of our jest and aversion? 



THE SNOWDROP. 

I SAW a snowdrop on the bed, 
Green taper leaves among ; 

Whiter than driven snow, its head 
On the slim stalk was hung. 

The wintry winds came sweeping o'er ; 

A bitter tempest blew ; 
The snowdrop faded — never more 

To glitter with the dew. 



294 THE YELLOW LEAF, 

I saw a smiling infant laid 
In its fond mother's arms ; 

Around its rosy cheek there played 
A thousand dimpling charms. 

A bitter pain was sent to take 

The smiling babe away ; 
How did its little bosom shake, 

As in a fit it lay ! 

Its beating heart was quickly stopped, 

And in the earth so cold 
I saw the little coffin dropped, 

And covered up with mould. 

Dear little children, who may read 
This mournful story through, 

Remember death may come with speed 
And bitter pains for you. 



THE YELLOW LEAF. 

I SAW a leaf come tilting down 
From a bare, withered bough ; 

The leaf was dead, the branch was brown, 
No fruit was left it now. 

But much the rattling tempest blew 

The naked boughs among ; 
And here and there came whirling through 

A leaf that loosely hung. 



THE POPPY. 295 

This leaf, they tell me, once was green, 

Washed by the showers soft ; 
High on the topmost bough 't was seen, 

And flourished up aloft. 

I saw an old man totter slow, 

Wrinkled, and weak, and gray ; 
He 'd hardly strength enough to go. 

Ever so short a way. 

His ear was deaf, his eye was dim, 

He leaned on crutches high ; 
But while I stayed to pity him, 

I saw him gasp and die. 

This poor old man was once as gay 

As rosy health could be ; 
Yes, and the youngest head must lay, 

Ere long, as low as he ! 



THE POPPY. 

High on a bright and sunny bed 
A scarlet poppy grew ; 

And up it held its staring head, 
And held it out to view. 

Yet no attention did it win 
By all these efforts made, 

And less offensive had it been 
In some retired shade. 



296 THE VIOLET. 

For though within its scarlet breast 
No sweet perfume was found, 

It seemed to think itself the best 
Of all the flowers around. 

From this may I a hint obtain, 
And take great care indeed, 

Lest I should grow as pert and vain 
As is this gaudy weed. 



THE VIOLET. 

Down in the green and shady bed 

A modest violet grew ; 
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head 

As if to hide from view. 

And yet it was a lovely flower. 

Its colors bright and fair ; 
It might have graced a rosy bower, 

Instead of hiding there. 

Yet there it was content to bloom, 

In modest tints arrayed ; 
And there it spreads its sweet perfume 

Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go. 

This pretty flower to see ; 
That I may also learn to grow 

In sweet humility. 



THE CRUEL THORN. 297 



THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 

How pleasant it is at the end of the day 

No follies to have to repent ; 
But reflect on the past, and be able to say 

That my time has been properly spent ! 

When I Ve done all my business with patience and care, 
And been good, and obliging, and kind ; 

I lie on my pillow, and sleep away there, 
With a happy and peaceable mind. 

But instead of all this, if it must be confessed, 

That I careless and idle have been ; 
I lie down as usual to go to my rest, 

But feel discontented within. 

Then as I don't like all the trouble I Ve had, 

In future I '11 try to prevent it ; 
For I never am naughty without being sad. 

Or good without being contented. 



THE CRUEL THORN. 

A BIT of wool Sticks here upon this thorn, — 
Ah, cruel thorn, to tear it from the sheep 1 

And yet, perhaps, with pain its fleece was worn. 
Its coat so thick, a hot and cumbrous heap. 



298 THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 

The wool a little bird takes in his bill. 

And with it up to yonder tree he flies ; 
A nest he 's building there with matchless skill. 

Compact and close, that cold and rain defies. 

To line that nest, the wool so soft and warm 
Preserves the eggs which hold its tender young ; 

And when they 're hatched, the wool will keep fi-om 
harm 
The callow brood, until they 're fledged and strong. 

Thus birds find use for what the sheep can spare. 

In this, my child, a wholesome moral spy \ 
And when the poor shall crave, thy plenty share, — 

Let thy abundance thus their wants supply. 



THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 

A DUCK, who had got such a habit of stuffing 
That all the day long she was panting and puffing, 
And by every creature who did her great crop see. 
Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy, — 

One day, after eating a plentiful dinner. 

With full twice as much as there should have been in 

her. 
While up to her eyes in the gutter a-roking, 
Was greatly alarmed by the symptoms of choking. 

Now there was an old fellow, much famed for dis- 
cerning, — i 
A drake, who had taken a liking for learning, j 

i 



THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 299 

And, high in repute with his feathery friends, 
Was called Dr. Drake : for this doctor she sends. 

In a hole of the dunghill was Dr. Drake's shop, 
Where he kept a few simples for curing the crop ; 
Some gravel and pebbles, to help the digestion. 
And certain famed plants of the doctor's selection. 

So, taking a handful of comical things. 
And brushing his topple and pluming his wings, 
And putting his feathers in apple-pie order, 
Set out, to prescribe for the lady's disorder. 

'' Dear sir," said the duck, with a delicate quack, 
Just turning a little way round on her back, 
And leaning her head on a stone in the yard, 
" My case. Dr. Drake, is exceedingly hard. 

" I feel so distended with wind, and oppressed, 
So squeamish and faint, such a load at my chest ; 
And day after day, I assure you it is hard, 
To suffer with patience these pains in my gizzard." 

" Give me leave," said the doctor, with medical look, 

As her flabby cold paw in his fingers he took ; 

" By the feel of your pulse — your complaint, I Ve 

been thinking. 
Is caused by your habit of eating and drinking." 

'^ Oh no, sir, believe me," the lady replied 
(Alarmed for her stomach as well as her pride), 
*^ I am sure it arises from nothing I eat. 
For I rather suspect I got wet in my feet. 

" I 've only been roking a bit in the gutter, 
Where the cook had been pouring some cold melted 
butter ; 



300 THE CHILD'S MONITOR. 

And a slice of green cabbage, and scraps of cold 

meat, 
Just a trifle or two, that I thought I could eat." 

The doctor was just to liis business proceeding, — 
By gentle emetics, a blister, and bleeding, — 
When all on a sudden she rolled on her side. 
Gave a horrible quackle, a struggle, and died ! 

Her remains were interred in a neighboring swamp 
By her friends, with a great deal of funeral pomp ; 
But I Ve heard this inscription her tombstone was put on, 
" Here lies Mrs. Duck, the notorious glutton.'* 
And all the young ducklings are brought by their 

friends. 
To learn the disgrace in which gluttony ends. 



THE CHILD'S MONITOR. 

The wind blows down the largest tree, 

And yet the wind I cannot see. 

Playmates far off, that have been kind, 

My thought can bring before my mind ; 

The past by it is present brought, 

And yet I cannot see my thought. 

The charming rose perfumes the air. 

Yet I can see no perfumes there. 

Blithe Robin's notes — how sweet, how clear ! 

From his small bill they reach my ear ; 

And whilst upon the air they float, 

I hear, yet cannot see a note. 



THE BUTTERFLY. 301 

When I would do what is forbid, 

By something in my heart I 'm chid ; 

When good I think, then quick and pat. 

That something says, " My child, do that." 

When I too near the stream would go, 

So pleased to see the waters flow, 

That something says, without a sound, 

" Take care, dear child, you may be drowned/* 

And for the poor whene'er I grieve. 

That something says, " A penny give." 

Thus Spirits good and ill there be, 

Although invisible to me ; 

Whate'er I do, they see me still, 

But oh, good Spirits, guide my will ! 



THE BUTTERFLY. 

The butterfly, an idle thing. 

Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, 

Like to the bee and bird ; 
Nor does it, like the prudent ant, 
Lay up the grain for time of want, 

A wise and cautious hoard. 

My youth is but a summer's day. 
Then, like the bee and ant, I '11 lay 

A store of learning by ; 
And though from flower to flower I rove, 
My stock of wisdom I '11 improve, 

Nor be a Butterfly. 



302 THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE, 



THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 

In a little dark crack half a yard from the ground 

An honest old spider resided ; 
So pleasant and snug and convenient 't was found, 
That his friends came to see it from many miles round. 

It seemed for his pleasure provided. 

Of the cares, and fatigues, and distresses of life 

This spider was thoroughly tired ; 
So leaving those scenes of contention and strife, 
His children all settled, he came with his wife, 

To live in this cranny retired. 

He thought that the little his wife would consume 

T would be easy for him to provide her ; 
Forgetting he lived in a gentleman^s room. 
Where came every morning a maid and a broom, — 
Those pitiless foes to a spider. 

For when — as sometimes it would chance to befall — 

Just when his neat web was completed, 
Brush would come the great broom down the side of 

the wall, 
And perhaps carry with it web, spider, and all, — 

He thought himself cruelly treated. 

One day, when their cupboard was empty and dry, 

His wife (Mrs. Hairy-leg Spinner) 
Said to him, " Dear, go to the cobweb and try 
If you can't find the leg or the wing of a fly, 

As a bit of a relish for dinner." 

Directly he went, his long search to resume 
(For nothing he ever denied her), 



NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE, 303 

Alas ! little guessing his terrible doom, — 
Just then came the gentleman into his room, 
And saw the unfortunate spider. 

So while the poor fellow, in search of his pelf, 

In the cobwebs continued to linger, 
The gentleman reached a long cane from the shelf 
(For certain good reasons best known to himself, 

Preferring his stick to his finger). 

Then presently poking him down to the floor, 

Not stopping at all to consider, 
With one horrid crush the whole business was o'er ; 
The poor Httle spider was heard of no more, 

To the lasting distress of his widow ! 



NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE. 

My prayers I said, I went to bed. 

And soon I fell asleep : 
But soon I woke, my sleep was broke, 

I through my curtains peep. 

I heard a noise of men and boys. 

The watchman's rattle too ; 
And " Fire ! " they cried — and then cried I, 

" Oh dear, what shall I do? " 

A shout so loud came from the crowd, 

Around, above, below ; 
And in the street the neighbors meet, 

Who would the matter know. 



3^4 THE LARK. 

Now down the stairs run threes and pairs 

Enough to break their bones, 
The firemen swear, the engines tear 

And thunder o'er the stones. 

The roof and wall, and stair and all, 

And rafters tumble in ; 
Red flames and blaze .now all amaze, 

And make a dreadful din ! 

And horrid screams, when bricks and beams 

Came tumbling on their heads ; 
And some are smashed, and some are crashed ; 

Some leap on feather beds. 

Some burn, some choke, with fire and smoke ! 

And, oh, what was the cause ? 
My heart 's dismayed, last night I played 

With Tommy, lighting straws ! 



THE LARK. 

From his humble grassy bed 

See the warbling lark arise ! 
By his grateful wishes led 

Through those regions of the skies. 

Songs of thanks and praise he pours, 

Harmonizing airy space. 
Sings, and mounts, and higher soars. 

Towards the throne of heavenly grace. 



THE TRUANT BOYS. 305 

Small his gifts compared to mine ; 

Poor my thanks with him compared, — 
I Ve a soul almost divine ; 

Angels' blessings with me shared. 

Wake, my soul ! to praise aspire. 

Reason, every sense, accord ; 
Join in pure seraphic fire ; 

Love, and thank, and praise the Lord. 



THE TRUANT BOYS. 

The month was April, and the morning cool. 

When Hal and Ned, 
To walk together to the neighboring school, 

Rose early from their bed. 

When reached the school, Hal said, " Why con your task 

Demure and prim ? 
Ere we go in, let me one question ask : 

Ned, shall we go swim? " 

Fearless of future punishment or blame, 

Away they hied 
Through many verdant fields, until they came 

Unto the river side. 

The broad stream narrowed in its onward course. 

And deep and still 
It silent ran, and yet with rapid force 

To turn a neighboring mill. 
20 



3o6 GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

Under the mill an arch gaped wide, and seemed 

The jaws of death ! 
Through this the smooth deceitful waters teemed 

On dreadful wheels beneath. 

They swim the river wide, nor think nor care ; 

The waters flow, 
And by the current strong they carried are 

Into the mill-stream now. 

Through the swift waters, as young Ned was rolled, 

The gulf when near, 
On a kind brier by chance he laid fast hold, 

And stopped his dread career. 

But luckless Hal was by the mill-wheel torn, 

A warning sad ! 
And the untimely death all friends now mourn, 

Of this poor truant lad ! 



GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

His petticoats now George cast off, 

For he was four years old ; 
His trousers were nankeen so fine. 

His buttons bright as gold. 
" May I," said little George, " go out 

My pretty clothes to show? 
May I, papa? may I, mamma?" 

The answer was, " No, no ! 



GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 307 

" Go, run below, George, in the court, 

But go not in the street, 
Lest naughty boys should play some trick, 

Or gypsies you should meet." 
Yet, though forbade, George went unseen, 

The little boys to see. 
And all admired him when he lisped, 

" Now who so fine as me? " 

But while he strutted to and fi-o. 

So proud, as I Ve heard tell, 
A sweep-boy passed, whom to avoid 

He slipped and down he fell. 
The sooty lad was kind and good, 

To Georgy boy he ran j 
He raised him up, and kissing said, 

" Hush, hush, my little man ! " 

He rubbed and wiped his clothes with care, 

And hugging said, " Don't cry ! 
Go home, as quick as you can go ! 

Sweet little boy, good-by." 
Poor George looked down, and, lo ! his dress 

Was blacker than before ; 
All over soot, and mud, and dirt. 

He reached his father's door. 

He sobbed, and wept, and looked ashamed, 

His fault he did not hide ; 
And since so sorry for his fault. 

Mamma she did not chide. 
That night when he was gone to bed. 

He jumped up in his sleep, 
And cried, and sobbed, and cried again, 

*^ I thought I saw the sweep ! " 



3o8 SOPHIA'S FOOrS-CAF. 



SOPHIA'S FOOUS-CAP. 

Sophia was a little child, 
Obliging, good, and very mild, 
Yet, lest of dress she should be vain, 
Mamma still dressed her well, but plain. 
Her parents, sensible and kind. 
Wished only to adorn her mind ; 
No other dress, when good, had she, 
But useful, neat simplicity. 

Though seldom, yet when she was rude. 
Or ever in a naughty mood. 
Her punishment was this disgrace, — 
A large fine cap adorned with lace, 
With feathers and with ribbons too ; 
The work was neat, the fashion new ! 
Yet, as a fool's-cap was its name. 
She dreaded much to wear the same. 

A lady, fashionably gay. 
Did to mamma a visit pay. 
Sophia stared, then whispering said, 
" Why, dear mamma, look at her head ! 
To be so tall and wicked too, 
The strangest thing I ever knew ! 
What naughty tricks, pray, has she done, 
That they have put a fool's-cap on? " 



WASHING AND DRESSING. 309 



WASHING AND DRESSING. 

Ah ! why will my dear little girl be so cross, 

Aiid cry, and look sulky, and pout ? 
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, 

I can't even kiss her without. 

You say you don't like to be washed and be dressed. 

But would you be dirty and foul ? 
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, 

And clear your sweet face from its scowl. 

If the water is cold, and the comb hurts your head, 

And the soap has got into your eye. 
Will the water grow warmer for all that you Ve said ? 

And what good will it do you to cry ? 

It is not to tease you, and hurt you, my sweet, 

But only for kindness and care 
That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look 
neat. 

And comb out your tanglesome hair. 

I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry, 

But pay me for all with a kiss. 
That 's right, take the towel and wipe your wet eye, 

I thought you 'd be good after this. 



3IO THE PLUM CAKE. 



THE PLUM CAKE. 

" Oh, I Ve got a plum cake, and a rare feast I '11 make \ 

I '11 eat, and I '11 stuff, and I '11 cram : 
Morning, noontime, and night, it shall be my delight, — 

What a happy young fellow I am ! " 

Thus said little George, and, beginning to gorge, 

With zeal to his cake he applied ; 
While fingers and thumbs, for the sweetmeats and plums, 

Were hunting and digging beside. 

But — woful to tell 1 — a misfortune befell, 

Which ruined his capital fun ; 
After eating his fill he was taken so ill 

That he trembled for what he had done. 



As he grew worse and worse, the doctor and nurse 

To cure his disorder were sent ; 
And rightly, you '11 think, he had physic to drink. 

Which made him his folly repent. 

And while on his bed he rolled his hot head, 

Impatient with sickness and pain. 
He could not but take this reproof from his cake, 

" Don't be such a glutton again." 



ANOTHER PLUM CAKE, 31 1 



ANOTHER PLUM CAKE. 

" Oh, I \^e got a plum cake, and a feast let us make ! 

Come, school-fellows, come at my call ! 
I assure you 't is nice, and we '11 each have a slice, 

Here 's more than enough for us all.'* 

Thus said little Jack, as he gave it a smack, 

And sharpened his knife for the job ; 
While round him a troop formed a clamorous group, 

And hailed him the king of the mob. 

With masterly strength he cut through it at length, 

And gave to each playmate a share. 
Dick, William, and James, and many more names. 

Partook his benevolent care. 

And when it was done, and they 'd finished their fun. 

To marbles or hoop they went back, 
And each little boy felt it always a joy 

To do a good turn for good Jack. 

In his task and his book his best pleasures he took ; 

And as he thus wisely began. 
Since he 's been a man grown, he has constantly shown 

That a good boy will make a good man. 



NURSERY RHYMES. 



THE COW. 



Thank you, pretty cow, that made 
Pleasant milk to soak my bread. 
Every day, and every night. 
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. 

Do not chew the hemlock rank, 
Growing on the weedy bank ; 
But the yellow cowslips eat. 
They perhaps will make it sweet. 

Where the purple violet grows, 
Where the bubbling water flows, 
Where the grass is fresh and fine, 
Pretty cow, go there and dine. 



GOOD NIGHT.' 

Little baby, lay your head 
On your pretty cradle-bed ; 
Shut your eye-peeps, now the day 
And the light are gone away. 



GETTING UP. 313 

All the clothes are tucked in tight \ 
Little baby dear, good night ! 

Yes, my darling, well I know 
How the bitter wind doth blow ; 
And the winter's snow and rain 
Patter on the window-pane. 
But they cannot come in here, 
To my little baby dear ; 

For the window shutteth fast, 
Till the stormy night is past ; 
Or the curtains we may spread 
Round about her cradle-bed. 
So till morning shineth bright, 
Little baby dear, good night 1 



GETTING UP. 

Now, my baby, ope your eye, 
For the sun is in the sky. 
And he 's peeping once again 
Through the frosty window-pane. 
Little baby, do not keep 
Any longer fast asleep. 

There now, sit in mother's lap, 
That she may untie your cap ; 
For the little strings have got 
Twisted into such a knot. 
Yes, you know you 've been at play 
With the bobbin as you lay. 



314 BABY AND MAMMA. 

There it comes, now let us see 
Where your petticoats can be. 
Oh ! they 're in the window-seat, 
Folded very smooth and neat. 
When my baby older grows, 
She shall double up her clothes. 

Now one pretty little kiss, 
For dressing you so nice as this. 
But before we go down stairs, 
Don't forget to say your prayers ; 
For 't is God who loves to keep 
Little babies while they sleep. 



BABY AND MAMMA. 

What a little thing am I ! 

Hardly higher than the table. 
I can eat, and play, and cry. 

But to work I am not able. 

Nothing in the world I know, 

But mamma will try and show me. 

Sweet mamma, I love her so. 
She 's so very kind unto me. 

And she sets me on her knee, 
Very often, for some kisses. 

Oh ! how good I '11 try to be. 

For such a dear mamma as this is. 



THE STAR. 315 



THE STAR. 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, 
How I wonder what you are ! 
Up above the world so high, 
Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is gone, 
When he nothing shines upon, 
Then you show your little light, — 
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveller in the dark 
Thanks you for your tiny spark. 
He could not see which way to go. 
If you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep. 
And often through my curtains peep ; 
For you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny spark 
Lights the traveller in the dark. 
Though I know not what you are, 
Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 



3l6 THE BABY'S DANCE, 



THE FLOWER AND THE LADY, ABOUT 
GETTING UP. 

Pretty flower, tell me why 
All your leaves do open wide, 

Every morning, when on high 
The noble sun begins to ride. 

This is why, my lady fair. 

If you would the reason know, 

For betimes the pleasant air 
Very cheerfully doth blow. 

And the birds on every tree 

Sing a merry, merry tune. 
And the busy honey-bee 

Comes to suck my sugar soon. 

This is, then, the reason why 

I my little leaves undo. 
Little lady, wake and try 

If I have not told you true. 



THE BABY'S DANCE. 

Dance, little baby, dance up high ! 

Never mind, baby, mother is by ; 

Crow and caper, caper and crow. 

There, little baby, there you go ! 

Up to the ceiling, down to the ground. 

Backwards and forwards, round and round ; 

Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing, 

While the gay merry coral goes ding-a-ding, ding ! 



QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 317 



FOR A LITTLE GIRL THAT DID NOT 
LIKE TO BE WASHED. 

What ! cry when I wash you ! not love to be clean ! 
Then go and be dirty, not fit to be seen. 
And till you leave off, and I see you have smiled, 
I can't take the trouble to wash such a child. 

Suppose I should leave you a figure like this, 
Do you think you could ask dear papa for a kiss, — 
Or to sit on his knee and learn pretty great A, 
With fingers that have not been washed all the day ? 

Ay, look at your fingers, you see it is so. 
Did you ever behold such a black Httle row ? 
And now you may look at yourself in the glass ; 
There 's a face to belong to a good httle lass ! 

Come, come then, I see you 're beginning to clear, 
You won't be so foolish again, will you, dear ? 



QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Who showed the little ant the way 

Her narrow hole to bore, 
And spend the pleasant summer day 

In laying up her store? 

The sparrow builds her nice, warm nest 
Of wool, and hay, and moss. 

Who told her how to weave it best, 
And lay the twigs across ? 



3l8 THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. 

Who taught the busy bee to fly 
Among the sweetest flowers, 

And lay his feast of honey by, 
To eat in winter hours ? 

*T was God who showed them all the way, 

And gave their little skill ; 
He teaches children, if they pray, 

To do His holy will. 



THE FIELD DAISY. 

I 'm a pretty little thing, 
Always coming with the spring. 
In the meadows green I 'm found, 
Peeping just above the ground ; 
And my stalk is covered flat 
With a white and yellow hat. 

Little Mary, when you pass 
Lightly o'er the tender grass. 
Skip about, but do not tread 
On my bright but lowly head ; 
For I always seem to say, 
" Surly winter 's gone away." 



THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. 

I AM very pale and dim, 
With my faint and bluish rim. 
Standing on my narrow stalk. 
By the littered gravel walk ; 



THE LITTLE CHILD, 3 19 

And the withered leaves aloft 
Fall upon me very oft. 

But 1 show my lonely head 
When the other flowers are dead, 
And you 're even glad to spy 
Such a homely thing as I ; 
For I seem to smile and say, 
" Summer is not quite away." 



THE LITTLE CHILD. 

I 'm a very little child, 

Only just have learned to speak ; 
So I should be very mild, 

Very tractable and meek. 

If my dear mamma were gone, 
Oh, I think that I should die, 

When she left me all alone, 
Such a little thing as I. 

Now what service can I do, 
To repay her for her care ? 

For I cannot even sew, 
Nor make anything I wear. 

Well, then, I will always try 
To be very good and mild ; 

Never now be cross or cry. 
Like a fretful little child. 



32 O THE SHEEP, 

How unkind it is to fret, 

And my dear mamma to tease, 

When my lesson I should get, 
Sitting still upon her knees ! 

Oh, how can I serve her so. 
Such a good mamma as this? 

Round her neck my arms I '11 throw, 
And her gentle cheek I '11 kiss. 

Then I '11 tell her that I will 
Try not any more to fret her, 

And as I grow older still. 

Try to show I love her better. 



THE SHEEP. 

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why 
In the pleasant fields you lie. 
Eating grass or daisies white, 
From the morning till the night? 
Every thing can something do. 
But what kind of use are you ? 

Nay, my little master, nay. 
Do not serve me so, I pray. 
Don't you see the wool that grows 
On my back to make your clothes ? 
Cold, and very cold, you 'd be, 
If you had not wool from me. 

True, it seems a pleasant thing 
To nip the daisies in the spring ; 



A FINE THING, 321 

But many chilly nights I pass 
On the cold and dewy grass, 
Or pick a scanty dinner where 
All the common 's brown and bare. 

Then the farmer comes at last, 
When the merry spring is past, 
And cuts my woolly coat away, 
To warm you in the winter's day. 
Little master, this is why 
In the pleasant fields I He. 



A FINE THING. 

Who am I with noble face, 
Shining in a clear blue place ? 
If to look at me you try, 
I shall blind your little eye. 

When my noble face I show, 
Over yonder mountain blue, 
All the clouds away do ride, 
And the dusky night beside. 

Then the clear wet dews I dry 
With the look of my bright eye ; 
And the little birds awake, 
Many a merry tune to make. 

Cowslips, then, and hare -bells blue, 
And lily-cups their leaves undo ; 
For they shut themselves up tight, 
All the dark and foggy night. 



322 A PRETTY THING, 

Then the busy people go, 
Some to plough, and some to sow ; 
When I leave, their work is done, — 
Guess if I am not the Sun. 



A PRETTY THING. 

Who am I that shine so bright 
With my pretty yellow light, 
Peeping through your curtains gray ? 
Tell me, little girl, I pray. 

When the sun is gone, I rise 
In the very silent skies ; 
And a cloud or two doth skim 
Round about my silver rim. 

All the little stars do seem 
Hidden by my brighter beam ; 
And among them I do ride. 
Like a queen in all her pride. 

Then the reaper goes along, 
Singing forth a merry song. 
While I light the shaking leaves 
And the yellow harvest sheaves. 

Little girl, consider well, 
Who this simple tale doth tell ; 
And I think you '11 guess it soon, 
For I only am the Moon. • 



GOING TO BED. 323 



THE SNOWDROP. 

Now the spring is coming on, 
Now the snow and ice are gone, 
Come, my little snowdrop root, 
Will you not begin to shoot ? 

Ah ! I see your pretty head 
Peeping on the flower-bed. 
Looking all so green and gay 
On this fine and pleasant day. 

For the mild south wind doth blow, 
And hath melted all the snow, 
And the sun shines out so warm, 
You need not fear another storm. 

So come up, you pretty thing, 
Just to tell us it is spring, 
Hanging down your modest head 
On my pleasant flower-bed. 



GOING TO BED. 

The moon is up, the sun is gone. 
Now nothing here he shines upon ; 
The pretty birds are in their nest, 
The cows are lying down to rest. 
Or wait, beneath the farmer's shed. 
To hear the merry milkmaid's tread. 



324 TIME TO GET UP. 

The pleasant flowers that opened wide, 

And smelt so sweet at morning-tide, 

Fold up their leaves, as if to say, 

" Good-by, we '11 come another day ; 

And now, dear litde lady, you 

Must sleep, as we shall seem to do." . 

Yes, — here 's my pretty bed, and I 
Will kiss mamma, and say " by, by ! " 
So nice and warm, so smooth and white, 
So comfortable all the night ! 
And when my little prayer is said. 
How could I cry to go to bed ? 



TIME TO GET UP. 

The cock, who soundly sleeps at night. 
Rises with the morning light ; 
Very loud and shrill he crows ; 
Then the sleeping ploughman knows 
He must rise and hasten too, 
All his morning work to do. 

And the little lark does fly 
To the middle of the sky. 
You may hear his merry tune. 
In the morning very soon ; 
For he does not like to rest 
Idly, in his downy nest. 

While the cock is crowing shrill, 
Leave my litde bed I will, 



THE FISH THAT WOULD NOT DO AS BID. 325 

And I '11 rise to hear the lark, 
Now it is no longer dark. 
T would be a pity there to stay, 
When 't is bright and pleasant day. 



4 



THE LITTLE FISH THAT WOULD NOT 
DO AS IT WAS BID. 

" Dear mother," said a little fish, 

" Pray is not that a fly ? 
I 'm very hungry, and I wish 

You 'd let me go and try."' 

" Sweet innocent," the mother cried, 

And started from her nook ; 
^' That horrid fly is put to hide 

The sharpness of the hook." 

Now as I 've heard, this little trout 

Was young and foolish too, 
And so he thought he 'd venture out, 

To see if it were true. 

And round about the hook he played, 

With many a longing look, 
And — "Dear me," to himself he said, 

" I 'm sure that 's not a hook. 

" I can but give one little pluck, — 

Let 's see, and so I will." 
So on he went, and, lo ! it stuck 

Quite through his little gill. 



326 THE LITTLE NEGRO, 

And as he faint and fainter grew, 
With hollow voice he cried, 

" Dear mother, had I minded you, 
I need not now have died." 



THE LITTLE NEGRO. 

Ah ! the poor little blackamoor, see, there he goes, 
And the blood gushes out from his half-frozen toes, 
And his legs are so thin you may almost see the 

bones, 
As he goes shiver, shiver, all along upon the stones. 

He was once a merry boy, — yes, a merry boy was he, 
Playing outlandish plays by the tall palm-tree. 
Or bathing in the river like a brisk water-rat, 
And at night sleeping soundly on his little piece of 
mat. 

But there came some wicked people, and they stole 

him far away. 
And then good-by to palm-tree tall, and i^erry, merry 

play; 
For they took him from his house and home, and 

everybody dear. 
And now, poor Uttle negro boy, he 's come a-begging 

here. 

Oh, fie upon those wicked men, who did this cruel 

thing ! 
I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the 

king. 



THE LITTLE LARK. 327 

For to steal him from his house and home must be a 

crying sin, 
Though he was a little negro boy and had a sooty 

skin. 



THE LITTLE LARK. 

I HEAR a pretty bird, but hark ! 

I cannot see it anywhere. 
Oh ! it is a little lark. 

Singing in the morning air. 
Little lark, do tell me why 
You are singing in the sky ? 

Other little birds at rest 

Have not yet begun to sing ; 

Every one is in its nest. 
With its head behind its wing. 

Little lark, then, tell me why 

You 're so early in the sky? 

You look no bigger than a bee, 
In the middle of the blue ; 

Up above the poplar tree, 
I can hardly look at you. 

Little lark, do tell me why 

You are mounted up so high ? 

" *T is to watch the silver star, 
Sinking slowly in the skies ; 

And beyond the mountain far, 
To see the glorious sun arise. 

Little lady, this is why 

I am mounted up so high. 



^28 . THE LITTLE ANTS. 

" 'T is to sing a merry song 
To the pleasant morning light ; 

Why stay in my nest so long, 
When the sun is shining bright ? 

Little lady, this is why 

I sing so early in the sky. 

" To the little birds below, 
Here I sing a merry tune ; 

And I let the ploughman know 
He must come to labor soon. 

Little lady, this is why 

I am singing in the sky." 



THE LITTLE ANTS. 

A LriTLE black ant found a large grain of wheat, 

Too heavy to lift or to roll ; 
So he begged of a neighbor he happened to meet, 

To help it down into his hole. 

" I Ve got my own work to see after,'* said he ; 

" You must shift for yourself, if you please." 
So he crawled off, as selfish and cross as could be. 

And lay down to sleep at his ease. 

Just then a black brother was passing the road, 

And seeing his neighbor in want 
Came up and assisted him in with his load ; 

For he was a good-natured ant. 

Let all who this story may happen to hear. 
Endeavor to profit by it ; 



THE MEADOWS. 329 

For often it happens that children appear 
As cross as the ant, every bit. 

And the good-natured ant, who assisted his brother, 
May teach those who choose to be taught. 

That if little insects are kind to each other, 
Then children most certainly ought. 



THE MEADOWS. 

We 'll go to the meadows, where primroses grow, 
And buttercups, looking as yellow as gold ; 

And daisies and cowslips, beginning to blow, — 
For it is a most beautiful sight to behold. 

The Httle bee humming about them is seen ; 

The butterfly merrily dances along ; 
The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green, 

And the linnet is singing his liveliest song. 

The birds and the insects are happy and gay, 

The beasts of the field they are glad and rejoice ; 

And we will be thankful to God every day, 
And praise His great name in a loftier voice. 

He made the green meadows, He planted the flowers, 
He sent his bright sun in the heavens to blaze ; 

He created these wonderful bodies of ours, 

And as long as we live we will sing of His praise. 



330 THE WASP AND THR BEE, 



THE WASP AND THE BEE. 

A Wasp met a Bee that was just buzzing by, 

And he said, " My dear cousin, can you tell me why 

You are loved so much better by people than I? 

" Why, my back is as bright and as yellow as gold. 
And my shape is most elegant, too, to behold ; 
Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told ! " 

Says the Bee, " My dear cousin, it 's all very true ; 
But indeed they would love me no better than you. 
If I were but half as much mischief to do ! 

^' You have a fine shape and a delicate wing. 

And they own you are handsome ; but then there 's 

one thing 
Which they cannot put up with, — and that is your 

sting. 

'^ Now I put it at once to your own common-sense. 

If you are not so ready at taking offence 

As to sting them on even the slightest pretence ? 

"Though my dress is so homely and plain, as you 

see, 
And I have a small sting, they 're not angry with me, 
Because I 'm a busy and good-natured Bee ! '* 

From this, pray, let ill-natured people beware ; 
Because, I am sure, if they do not take care. 
That they '11 never be loved, if they 're ever so fair. 

THE END. 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 

jfauious aEomcn .Series. 

MARGARET^ FULLER 

By JULIA WARD HOWE. 



" A memoir of the woman who first in New England took a position of moral 
and intellectual leadership, by the woman who wrote the Battle Hymn of the 
Republic, is a literary event of no common or transient interest. The Famous 
Women Series will have no worthier subject and no more illustrious biographer. 
Nor will the reader be disappointed, — for the narrative is deeply interesting and 
full of inspiration." — IVonian^s Jourjial. 

" Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's biography of Margaret Fuller, in the Famous 
Women Series of Messrs. Roberts Brothers, is a work which has been looked for 
with curiosity. It will not disappoint expectation. She has made a bnlliant and 
an interesting book. Her study of Margaret Fuller's character is thoroughly 
sympathetic ; her relation of her life is done in a graphic and at times a fascinating 
manner. It is the case of one woman of strong individuality depicting the points 
which made another one of the most marked characters of her day. It is always 
agreeable to follow Mrs. Howe in this ; for while we see marks of her own mind 
constantly, there is no inartistic protrusion of her personality. The book is always 
readable, and the relation of the death-scene is thrillingly impressive.*' — Satur^ 
day Gazette. 

** Mrs. Julia Ward Howe has retold the story of Margaret Fuller's life and 
career in a very interesting manner. This remarkable woman was happy in 
having James Freeman Clarke, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and William Henry 
Channing, all of whom had been intimate with her and had felt the spell of her 
extraordinary personal influence, for her biographers. It is needless to say, of 
course, that nothing could be better than these reminiscences in their way." — 
New York World. 

*'The selection of Mrs. Howe as the wTiter of this biography was a happy 
thought on the part of the editor of the series ; for, aside from the natural appre- 
ciation she would have for Margaret Fuller, comes her knowledge of all the 
influences that had their effect on Margaret Fuller's life. She tells the story of 
Margaret Fuller's interesting life from all sources and from her own knowledge, 
not hesitating to use plenty of quotations when she felt that others, or even 
Margaret Fuller herself, had done the work better." — Miss Gilder^ in Philadel- 
phia Press. 

* 

Sold by all booksellers. Mailed^ post-paid., on receipt of 
the price, by the publishers^ 

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Boston, Mass. 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 



jfamous SHomen .Series. 



MARIA EDGEWORTH. 

By HELEN ZIMMERN. 



" This little volume shows good literary workmanship. It does not weary the 
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siasm — not to say baseless encomium — for which too many female biographers 
have accustomed us to look. It is a simple and discriminative sketch of one of 
the most clever and lovable of the class at whom Carlyle sneered as ' scribbling 
women.' ... Of Maria Edgeworth, the woman, one cannot easily say too 
much in praise. That home life, so loving, so wise, and»so helpful, was beautiful 
lo 'ts end. Miss Zimmern has treated it with delicate appreciation. Her book 
is refined in conception and tasteful in execution,— all, in short, the cynic might 
say, that we expect a woman's book to be." — New York Tribune. 

" It was high time that we should possess an adequate biography of this orna- 
ment and general benefactor of her time. And so we hail with uncommon pleas- 
ure the volume just published in the Roberts Brothers' series of Famous Women, 
of which it is the sixth. We have only words of praise for the manner in which 
Miss Zimmern has written her life of Maria Edgeworth. It exhibits sound 
judgment, critical analysis, and clear characterization. . . . The style of the 
volume is pure, limpid, and strong, as we might expect from a well-trained Eng- 
lish writer." — Margaret J. Preston, in the Home JournaL 

** We can heartily recommend this life of Maria Edgeworth, not only because it 
is singularly readable in itself, but because it makes familiar to readers of the 
pre:-ent age a notable figure in English literary history, with whose lineaments 
■we suspect most readers, especially of the present generation, are less familiar 
than they ought to be." — Eclectic. 

" This biography contains several letters and papers by Miss Edgeworth that 
have not before been made public, notably some charming letters written during 
the latter part of her life to Dr. Holland and Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor. The author 
had access to a life of Miss Edgeworth written by her step-mother, as well as to a 
large collection of her private letters, and has therefore been able to bring forward 
many facts in her life which have not been noted by other writers. The book is 
wiitten in a pleasant vein, and is altogether a delightful one to read." — Utica 
Herald. 



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FosTON Mass. 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 
FAMOUS WOMEN SEEIES. 



EMILY BRONTE. 

By a. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
One vol. 16mo. Clothi. Price, $1.00. 

" Miss Robinson has written a fascinating biography. . . . Emily Bronte is 
interesting, not because she wrote ' VVuthering Heights,' but because of her 
brave, baffled, human life, so lonely, so full of pain, but with a great hope shining 
beyond all the darkness, and a passionate defiance in bearing more than the 
burdens that were laid upon her. The story of the three sisters is infinitely sad, 
but it is the ennobling sadness that belongs to large natures cramped and striving^ 
for freedom to heroic, almost desperate, work, with little or no result. The author' 
of this intensely interesting, sympathetic, and eloquent biography, is a young lady 
and a poet, to whom a place is given in a recent anthology of living English poets, 
which is supposed to contain only the be^t poems of the best writers." — Boston 
Daily Advertiser. 

•'Miss Robinson had many excellent qualifications for the task she has per- 
formed in this little volume, among which may be named, an enthusiastic interest 
in her subject and a real sympathy with Emily Bronte's sad and heroic life. *To 
represent her as she was,' says Miss Robinson, 'would be her noblest and most 
fitting monument.' . . . Emily Bronte here becomes well known to us and, in one 
sense, this should be praise enough for any biography," — New York Times. 

"The biographer who finds such material before him as the lives and characters 
of the Bronte family need have no anxiety as to the interest of his work. Char- 
acters not only strong but so uniquely strong, genius so supreme, misfortunes so 
overwhelming, set in its scenery so forlornly picturesque, could not fail to attract 
all readers, if told even in the most prosjtic language. When we ndd to this, that 
Miss Robinson has told their story not in prosaic language, but with a literary 
style exhibiting all the qualities essential to good biography, our readers will 
understand that this life of Emily Bronte is net only as interesting as a novel, but 
a great deal more interesting than most rovels. As it presents most vividly a 
general picture of the family, there seems hardly a reason for giving it Emily's name 
alone, except perhaps for the masterly chapters on ' Wuthering Heights,' which 
the reader will find a grateful condensation of the best in that powerful but some- 
what forbidding story. We know of no point in the Bronte history — their genius, 
their surroundings, their faults, their happiness, their misery, their love and friend- 
ships, their peculiarities, their power, their gentleness, their patience, their pride, 
— which Miss Robinson has not touched upon with conscientiousness and sym- 
pathy." — The Critic. 

"* Emily Bronte ' is the second of the ' Famous Women Series,* which Roberts 
Brothers, Boston, propose to publish, and of which ' George Eliot ' was the initial 
volume. Not the least remarkable of a very remarkable family, the personage 
whose life is here written, possesses a peculiar interest to all who are at all familiar 
with the sad and singular history of herself and her sister Charlotte. That the 
author. Miss A. Mary F. Robinson, has done her work with minute fidelity to 
facts as well as affectionate devotion to the subject of her sketch, is plainly to be 
seen all through the book." — Washitigto7i Post. 



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price, by the Publishers, 

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Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 



FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 



GEORGE SAND. 

By bertha THOMAS. 

One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, Ji.oo. 

** Miss Thomas has accomplished a difficult task with as much good sense a« 
good feeling. She presents the main facts of George Sand's life, extenuating 
nothing, and setting naught down in malice, but wisely leaving her readers to 
form their own conclusions. Everybody knows that it was not such a life as the 
women of England and America are accustomed to live, and as the worst of men 
are glad to have them live. . . . Whatever may be said against it, its result on 
George Sand was not what it would have been upon an English or American 
woman of genius." — New York Mail and Express. 

'* This is a volume of the * Famous Women Series,' which was begun so well 
with George Eliot and Emily Bronte. The book is a review and critical analysis 
of George Sand's life and work, by no means a detailed biography. Amantine 
Lucile Aurore Dupin, the maiden, or Mme. Diidevant, the married woman, is 
forgotten in the renown of the pseudonym George Sand. 

*' Altogether, George Sand, with all her excesses and defects, is a representative 
woman, one of the names of the nineteenth century. She was great among the 
greatest, the friend and compeer of the finest intellects, and Miss Thomas's essay 
will be a useful and agreeable introduction to a more extended study of her life 
and works." — Knickerbocker. 

" The biography of this famous woman, by Miss Thomas, is the only one in 
existence. Those who have awaited it with pleasurable anticipation, but with 
some trepidation as to the treatment of the erratic side of her character, cannot 
fail to be pleased with the skill by which it is done. It is the best production on 
George Sand that has yet been published. The author modestly refers to it as a 
sketch, which it undoubtedly is, but a sketch that gives a just and discriminating 
analysis of George Sand's life, tastes, occupations, and of the motives and impulses 
which prompted her unconventional actions, that were misunderstood by a narrow 
public. The difficulties encountered by the writer in describing this remarkable 
character are shown in the first line of the opening chapter, which says, ' In nam- 
ing George Sand we name something more exceptional than even a great genius.* 
Tiiat tells the whole story. Misconstruction, condemnation, and isolation are the 
penalties enforced upon the great leaders in the realm of advanced thought, by 
the bigoted people of their time. The thinkers soar beyond the common herd, 
whose soul-wings are not strong enough to fly aloft to clearer atmospheres, and 
consequently they censure or ridicule what they are powerless to reach. George 
Sand, even io a greater extent than her contemporary, George Eliot, was a victim 
to ignorant social prejudices, but even the conservative world was forced to recog- 
nize the matchless genius of these two extraordinary women, each widely different 
in her character and method of thought and writing. . . . She has told much that 
is good which has been untold, and just what will interest the reader, and no more, 
''n the same easy, entertaining style that characterizes all of these unpretentious 
jographies." — Hartford Times. 



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Messrs. Roberts Brothers^ Publications. 
FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 



MARY LAMB. 

By ANNE GILCHRIST. 
One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 



** The story of Mary Lamb has long been familiar to the readers of Elia, but 
never in its entirety as in the monograph which Mrs. Anne Gilchrist has just 
contributed to the Famous Women Series. Darkly hinted at by Talfourd in his 
Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, it became better known as the years went on 
and that imperfect work was followed by fuller and franker biographies, — became 
so well known, in fact, that no one could recall the memory of Lamb without 
recalling at the same time the memory of his sister." — New York Mail and Ex- 
cess. 

" A biography of Mary Lamb must inevitably be also, almost more, a biogra- 
phy of Charles Lamb, so completely was the life of the sister encompassed by 
that of her brother ; and it must be allowed that Mrs. Anne Gilchrist has per- 
formed a difficult biographical task with taste and ability. . . . The reader is at 
least likely to lay down the book with the feeling that if Mary Lamb is not famous 
she certainly deserves to be, and that a debt of gratitude is due Mrs. Gilchrist for 
this well-considered record of her life." — Boston Courier. 

** Mary Lamb, who was the embodiment of everything that is tenderest in 
woman, combined with this a heroism which bore her on for a while through the 
terrors of insanity. Think of a highly intellectual woman struggling year after 
year with madness, triumphant over it for a season, and then at last succumbing to 
It. The saddest lines that ever were written are those descriptive of this brother and 
sister just before Mary, on some return of insanity, was to leave Charles Lamb. 
ijQn one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them slowly pacing together a little 
feot-path in Hoxton Fields, both weeping bitterly, and found, on joining them, 
that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed asylum.* What pathos 
is there not here ? " — New York Times. 

I* This life was worth writing, for all records of weakness conquered, of pain 
patiently borne, of success won from difficulty, of cheerfulness in sorrow and 
affliction, make the world better. Mrs. Gilchrist's biography is unaflfected and 
simple. She has told the sweet and melancholy story with judicious sympathy, 
showing always the light shining through darkness." — Philadelphia Press, 



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the price, by the Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



MESSES. EOBEETS BEOTHEES' PUBLIOATIONS. 

jFamous mamtn Series. 
GEORGE ELIOT. 

By MATHILDE BLIND. 
One vol. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $i.oo. , 



" Messrs. Roberts Brothers begin a series of Biographies of Famous 
Women with a life of George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind. The idea of th4 
series is an excellent one, and the reputation of its publishers is a guarantee 
for its adequate execution. This book contains about three hundred pages in 
open type, and not only collects and condenses the main facts that are known 
in regard to the historjj of George Eliot, but supplies other material from 
j)ersonal research. It is agreeably written, and with a good idea of propor 
tion in a memoir of its size. The critical study of its subject's works, which 
is made in the order of their appearance, is particularly well done. In fact, 
good taste and good judgment pervade the memoir throughout." — Saturday 
Evening Gazette. 

" Miss Blind's little book is written with admirable good taste and judg- 
ment, and with notable self-restraint. It does not weary the reader with 
critical discursiveness, nor with attempts to search out high-flown meanings 
and recondite oracles in the plain 'yea' and * nay * of life. It is a graceful 
and unpretentious little biography, and tells all that need be told concerning 
one of the greatest writers of the time. It is a deeply interesting if not 
fascinating woman whom Miss Blind presents," says the New York 
Tribune. 

** Miss Blind's little biographical study of George Eliot is written with 
sympathy and good taste, and is very welcome. It gives us a graphic if not 
elaborate sketch of the personality and development of the great novelist, is 
particularly full and authentic concerning her earlier years, tells enough of 
the leading motives in her work to give the general reader a lucid idea of the 
trae drift and purpose of her art, and analyzes carefully her various writings, 
with no attempt at profound criticism or fine writing, but with appreciation, 
insight, and a clear grasp of those underlying psychological principles which 
are so closely interwoven in every production that came from her pen." — 
Traveller, 

" The lives of few great writers have attracted more curiosity and specula- 
tion than that of George Eliot. Had she only lived earlier in the century 
she might easily have become the centre of a mythos. As it is, many of the 
anecdotes commonly repeated about her are made up largely of fable. It is, 
therefore, well, before it is too late, to reduce the true story of her career to 
the lowest terms, and this service has been well done by the author of the 
present volume." — Philadelphia Press. 



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price, by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



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